My mother told me when I was a boy
Son look up, and see it, that grand old sky.
But now I suspect, her meaning was coy.
When I look up, I see that we will die.

This great ordeal will end without a ring.
For I have befallen no matriarch.
Not one coy mistress to dinner I bring.
For life is as passioned as my food's starch.

I don't want a body, merely your heart.
I no longer care, life has lost its art.