A table is set for hundreds
In the chambers of my dying heart
At which is to be sat many a notable guest
Lonely, Sad, Fearful, and Disgusted too
Where they are to converse on the goings on
At a mile a minute all together
A harmonious blare of monotony
Where which each conversation is sensible
Yet together is disjointed, annoying
Me being the willing fool with a broken heart
Tried to listen in to find my ear sadly unattuned
To the discourse of utmost importance
I guess it's a part of living dead