Hark and hear the raindrops sigh,
Fell just short of lullaby.
And in them I can heard the sound,
Of bouts of time bounding by
And faint whispers of savage cries,
So hell it burns with the fury of that.
A bell in the wind dripping wet with remorse,
Yet so sweet the song that still come forth,
And though it can’t be seen from now,
It rings proud with brutal force,
Caught in rhythmic deficiencies, caused of course,
By shady changes in the weather up north.
But for I to say anything at all,
Would be bold, to say the least
And a certain bad judgment call,
So gather around for the feast.
Your eyes and hold nothing back,
Aside from parts of the heart, painted black.