Ire

I

Time is sick, but once it departs
as long as it sells, there’s no greater burning
to write for dear life, as soon as it starts
and no man can get by, except when by earning
and no one should live all aside from the arts,
No matter which way, at once it’s concerning
So hell, as it starts, we’re all under the weather
Thirsting for elsewhere, together together.

II