Tell me a story about all the lost people
all the lost people in chairs.
They sit and they cry
all while wishing to die
and look up
and nobody cares.
Their bodies, they cover the rooftops
for they fling themselves high in the air.
They lie there in shame
for they realize all was a game,
and it gives them, oh such a scare.

Where are their raspberry Tuesdays?
They have fallen from the passage of time.
Where are their ***-raisin Fridays?
They have oozed from the last of the slime.
Our fancies and dainties are dust on the ground.
We incline ear towards decay, yet it don’t make a sound.