Shall I compare thee to a broken watch
A piece of garbage all but twice a day
Existing to be broken on the rocks
Remember the father and where he lay
But gone is the age of the stoics babe
Now rust and rot control the fall of glass
Not one was witness to the violet grave
Except the people in the razor grass
But nothing's nice under an ochre sky
Although your sickened tick is worse than most
And you betray the father with your lie
As if his sacrifice was but a joke
A life in the waves could pay all your dues
Best get comfy in your new concrete shoes

Burnt ochre, brittle     and blackened since bloom.
In death's repose, the     roses are refined.