Walking up the bloodstream hills.
Where silent warriors fell.
The land of noise and gun shot.

And so the holy fell.
As they fell into the asylum.
Rocking in chairs without rockers.

Enter stage left, the therapist,
the one with the listening ears.
He looks straight through those tears as whimsically they fall,
Drooling from your smile.
Trying so determinedly.
To try and raise a grin.
Matters not how hard he tries
You know he'll never win.
His smile mere mania.
Nothing whimsical dwells there within.
Pass him the gin bottle.
This mother's ruined,
(C) Livvi