Reveal thyself, oh mine soul

And be done with thine dance.

Behold the beauty of Release:

Be thee done, and walk on.


Four more, oh more, there are,

To them dids't ye say thine words? No!

Should ye be different here? Why bother!

Have a drink, and then another.


What would old Khayyam say of thee?

That ye are more wooden than a tree!

Indeed,thine patheticity is so deplorable that

We've all taken turns, mocking your stories!


Excuses, excuses, enough is enough!

Tell that which must be told, and do not be rough.

Then, be awakened by those words

That hardly feel like pink and fluff.