I still see them in their old buckling frames
Nothing new, just their old dead lives
You see them in all sorts of faces
Trying to glitter in all shades of darkness
Dust colours their feet up to the knee
Bare footed but they boast of golden shoes
Specks of true falsehood like dust
Clouding their vain view
Blindly babbling ostensible insanity
Can live anything except being it
Their pride soaring with the falcons
While they wallow in the mud with the worms
They like their coffees chilled
And their beers hot
They wore denial like cloak
Holding in their hands mirrors
Hasty to scrutinize every soul
Every life they can tell
But theirs they search but never find
Because they search only in the night
For the men they deny in the day
They fear dying young even in their old days
But they end up dying in the night
When the sun is high up in the sky shinning
And they are mourned on Christmas morns
Celebrating their funerals in happy tears
In toasts of grand cru with the music loud
Ink On The Heart 