My story is without repent
The green of new growth
Puts joy in my otherwise
Dead soul .
The dandelion that serves
Our servants, gets cuts down with haste
It serves us well
Hopefully no ****** beds .

The smell of fresh cut grass sure is nice .
But the  little fellows , the beasties are our rice , no lovely coloured trouperdour , with silver rizla thin wings  ,

Lost souls that we still have to celebrate
Never forgotten,  there waiting in the fly like wings , the curtain open , your with us again