I'd bow my weary head
To the angel that is dead
In our garden
The killer sits
On a metal chair
Where no one ever gets
To
His arm is as dead
As his empty head
His other hand points to.
Alerted I cried he must
Be the guy but no
Ones here to hear
As grey rises to his feet
I conceed defeat
And fall right out asleep
As I wake up I realize
I'm sitting in my easy chair .