My fingers
Made of the finest ink
Sharp like the quills
I have laid across my desk
They are dull and rusted
With the red of metal's blush
These feathers that once made me fly
They have only left me here
To have my words from my lips
Die
They were plucked from the Muse's
Great singing canaries
Who know of words that always rhyme
That always rings in my ears
But as the world said
Your ink spilling fingers
Are not right for the world
Not right for the eyes
Not right for the masses
I can only sigh
Let my fingers lie in the frosty sun
Let them dry up
Rot away
And I can only hope
That Muse's great singing canaries
Can rouse me again
From my sorrowful sleep
From my sorrowful dreams