"If you take hyphens seriously, you will surely go mad"
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me scream loud with cries of pain. The next portion tells of a needing for you, a lull with such desperate undertones, like a crab defecates it's pride in the water bubbling, turning into gas. Steam rises from the pot and so does the crab's soul. Such fine meat he'll leave for me, but I too must lose pride and make a stench. Which a few hours later would not had been possible without that precious shell fish.
Last, but not least, you are to be my sunshine, the great blind, my distraction that severely impairs my visual concepts and keeps me warm during the day.
By night you are a mystery and a terror to me. The moon reflects you and i'm to believe that you are as threatening as sticking my leg in a badger set.
Months later when you decide to rise, I'll have bled to death is how the obituary will read. In reality I'm laying awake in a coffin in the ground, I've been here for weeks. Nailed shut for your safety.
'Cause my death was the subterfuge you've been planing all these years. The sneak in your swift tiptoeing, that I had suspicion to detect, was my only hint that I should be ready for death. A radar in the winter will not lie, there are machines under the snow, and in four weeks you'll know why. The skies will be grey, is my one prophecy.
Last, but not least, you are to be my sunshine, the great blind, my distraction that severely impairs my visual concepts and keeps me warm during the day.
By night you are a mystery and a terror to me. The moon reflects you and i'm to believe that you are as threatening as sticking my leg in a badger set.
Months later when you decide to rise, I'll have bled to death is how the obituary will read. In reality I'm laying awake in a coffin in the ground, I've been here for weeks. Nailed shut for your safety.
'Cause my death was the subterfuge you've been planing all these years. The sneak in your swift tiptoeing, that I had suspicion to detect, was my only hint that I should be ready for death. A radar in the winter will not lie, there are machines under the snow, and in four weeks you'll know why. The skies will be grey, is my one prophecy.