the Wind has blown out,
the Tide ran away,
the Autumn faded in disarray,
the Laughter fled the Sense of Sorrow,
it knew would come,
on this the, day, called,
Tomorrow,
hopes all a-smudged in the dust of time,
taken, lost, abandoned, bereft,
words alone now, the others all left,
no gunshot, no victory, no glorious death,
perhaps, just us and an obit for lady macbeth.
we’re stuffed in just a few weeks time,
we’ll close the doors,
we’ll walk away,
we needed money like a horse needs hay,
some will laugh and some will cry,
some will point as we walk by.
but if all thats left is This,
then we can say,
at least we tried to win the day,
we worked we toiled ,
boiling blood and sweat,
and still we dream of better yet
and still we dream of better yet
Etches Penman
Sep 09
In Iserlohn
an Ancient German town
were hope wears a purple gown
and we dream of better yet.
