The End

I write gloomy autobiographical things. No wonder I'm so unpopular.

The End

A man’s not a man when he’s crying and pleading
When his soul is in strife and broken and bleeding
And he curses the crucified life that he’s leading

The start of the end is in every beginning
A loss is potential in what seems to be winning
The grace of the angels can save us from sinning

There’s a spark of death in each fertilized egg
A human monster makes a hurt woman beg
And a tired old man’s on his very last legs

A small bird alone is found with broken wing
A lonely girl is made sound and given a ring
The heavens resound as the angels still sing

When the bird’s body is whole away it will fly
When the girl feels secure, she’ll make her man cry
If the angels stop singing the world by fire will die