The roses are wilting,

Both petals and thorns droop,

The ugly and the beautiful,

Where neither know what to do

 

The crowd is in chaos,

Vinegar tears seep from their eyes,

The leaders are trying to do away with

All of their past ties

 

The priest is looking pale,

His faith so surely marred,

By the lack of answers he sees,

And by his cyanide heart

 

A girl wears a skull t-shirt,

Now that so little is left,

She spends her days alone,

And her livelihood is in death

 

The bus driver is begging

To see the next stop sign,

For he promised himself,

Not until then would he resign

 

See the angels of industry,

Each wears a smoke-ring halo,

And each one's telling the other

Too much that they don't know

 

Now the day is smiling,

And the clock has to laugh,

At the myriad trivialities,

And their tumultuous aftermath

 

Three chairs to an old oak table, 

A crowd, so proverbs say,

And the notions of love are tossed about,

By a pebble and a clod of clay

 

Now so much is changing,

Sherlock Holmes beaten to the punch,

But the calender will roll its eyes,

And say its really nothing much

 

The flower lady's not been bought from,

Her roses are turning brown,

And their dropping petals are her tears,

Knowing the beauty she's let down

 

And the clown is trembling,

As he saw how his friend died,

And his mask does little to conceal,

The sorrowed rage he's trying to hide

 

Now the calender has given up,

It's had to swallow all its lies,

As the times kept altering,

And no things were more broken than past ties.