Look, you weren’t there when we ultimately advanced, baby,
yet still happily buying its products after greatly interfering,
while obstinately bathing under a runaway blistering sun,
vehemently complaining in spurts that we ain’t doing anything.
Here, drink in deep these damn deserts all night long, honey,
because you’ll never be able to survive even during our milder days,
feeling weaker each test flooded in iced tea and air-conditioning,
with light moans reverberating from your thicker-headed mileage.
Believe me, I honestly didn’t mean to bring this about,
our frail curtain down in a desperate shambles, everybody,
see how my steady hands are now incurably trembling,
as I sincerely cry in such a sad state over your brave shoulders.
Come on, fry us some eggs and sausage across my belly,
freeing me to cool a beer in my harsh throat for quick regurgitation,
where we can never break the ruby glass in our greasy fingers,
entertaining these few last snickers of folly before we blow to ashes.
Forgive, but definitely don’t allow yourselves to forget me,
a vivid million years or so on the run without a proper vacation,
leaving for our reckless winds to handle every new burial,
then chase in devilish vortexes above this whole singed dustbin.
My God, witness Your helpless children rushing the cliffs below,
causing turbulent oceans to reach out as a fateful loving embrace,
Your slanted pendulum turning a meek degree right and left,
finally leading to our division as gold flakes and sand between talons.
Sharwrong's Song 