raindrops wash his tears as the fiddler plays
his jet black locks caress his cheek, slowly shifting grey
he has sung his heartbreaking ode for years on end
his true love an audience ne'er again to attend
eyes that once shined a bright green hue
dulled by sorrowful tears turned the deepest blue
once a lover he'd had near the western shores of Ireland
the love of his life, a gorgeous young lass, for her he'd asked her hand
nary a day passed were they not by the other's side
alas, the young lass had a secret she could not abide
untimely demise had she met at the sleight of her very own hand
a pain so harsh no longer could she withstand
alive once he was, now just a fiddler in the hidden glen
ne'er to to step outside the trees to the light of day again
'neath the crescent moon he lies
now a slave to the fiddlers' tune, he cries

Allow me if you would
to rot within this created decay
decorated in pain and despair
inescapable when seen for what it is
created by my own hand
but it is that, my own creation
so I ask again
allow me to lie down
caressing my sweet creation
a mind corrupted by corruption
yet still turned to the North
seeking its own way out
the final footfall
wherever that may be

Tears rain down endlessly
from the skies, from our eyes
imagine the day God's tears rain down acidic
painful and tainted from centuries of travesties
eroding the wasteland we so artistically painted
with blood, sweat and hatred
casting the Earth in turmoil and oppression
one more great flood, inevitably washing clean
creating fresh canvas with which to paint

A line to make a turn
A line to buy milk
A line to buy a ticket
A line to go to school
Another line in a poem
Lines, lines, lines

As we all stand in line to die
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