Said the mirror to the poet
"Can you really over think?"
Said the whisky to lonely
"Can you really over drink?"

The coffin creaks to the undertaker
"Are you satisfied with your work?"
She grimly replies to the casket
"Well, it has certain unique perks."

The earth sighs to the human population
"When will this violation eventually cease?"
We ignore her pathetic mutterings
And order "production must be increased!"

The poet sheds a crocodile tear
As the shadow of insanity looms
The lonely empties another bottle
Staggers back from the shop and resumes

The undertaker makes final plans
For her own elaborate swan song
A sun drenched plot of gravel reserved
Beneath which she will soon belong

And the Earth despairs at her children
She did not raise them to be this way
And just like the forlorn undertaker
She is also planning her final day.