Hold the lamp shade for me dear, I have need of it's feather-dusted stature.
Tell me closely the refrains of that song you've killed me with so many times.
Does it not go like this?:
"Smokey softly smokey like a cloud unworthy to be turned around.
Smokey softly smokey everything is burned down to the ground."

Let the fire in those words drip like lava down your chin.
The burn-holed beginning of my baker's street body
that baked all my fears alive; cleansed of it.

The race of men with their flaming tempers makes for quite a study.
The quantity of corruption found within.
Their stated lusts
in fires burnt,
their corpses left to ash.
Great fires fought by careful study;
yet the fire fought will always win.