Everything was as it was when was was at its everything.
The prance of the gay and the love to dance had made its way through death and trance.
Yet life yet sprum from wherein it bloom,
its fancy's can
oh spare the timids tomb.
"Here i lay," i yell i yell.
"Here i bay the fickle and moot!"
"Still i play on mornings fooot!"
Stop.
And all was quiet for a quip and a yup,
although for the wassits,
was was enough.