Take my words like a promissory note,
All these birds will die someday,
Leaving you amidst these treacherous trees,
Like a rag between those thorns and heels.
At the absence of thou people,
On a winters country wine,
Weeps alone in the shadows,
The nightingale of the night.
Roots grow deep into the crete,
But with no gen but yawn'inden,
Down there in thy pictures heart,
Where the moon meets not, by your sun dark.
As thou night break's strife,
Not-not remember to Payback; on your Payday.
