His eyes force open

He begs for them to close again

A futile notion

That he could ever conquer them

He would give anything

To sleep and be still for a week

He hears the starlings sing

Their song as fair as he is bleak

In flock the vultures

To gnaw and scratch at what is left

A twisted culture

To mock and scoff at the distressed

He wished he still had faith

That better days were yet to come

Living for cheap escape

Cause all the better days had been and gone

And what next now for the boy

Who sits alone beneath the dying tree

Bled dry is all the fruit

Not one last drop of nectar to be seen

The oak bore sweet delights

That kept him warm on lonely nights in filth

But now the juice runs dry

The branches and the flowers left to wilt

What better time, for him to meet the wandering eye

A potent weariness, disguised as pleasure; something just and wise

And thus, the plot's devised, to make his spirit level rise

The poor boy unaware, of his impending grim demise

First by the artful leaders, he'll be keenly goaded and chastised

Now comes the reverent chanting, these wicked men he'll idolise

Then comes the violent drowning, in the mud caked gutter he's baptised

And in his rotten core, the fruit he grew to love he'll now despise

What's reaped and sown is overgrown

Now after rain has fell

And o'er the trees my soul had flown

Now I can never tell

Of wretched lies and tall deceits

They claw away at flesh and meat

Down every corner, every street

They ring the final bell