Corporeal, we will feel,
the bite of life’s last drop.
That time comes like a fallen top,
rushing to meet our doomed doom zoom.
Fantastically, we fling rascally,
amazingly, we sight flirtateously,
but below the belt of azure’s wrath,
within the glare of knife’s bent gaze,
we sweep the porch of sightly might,
clear the ivory-covered kite,
flow into the golden-hued air
on wings of trespass; it is night,
we are our generation’s last hope,
to save the rest of them with only a rope;
yes, a rope.