May I write ’bout what little is left,
What wrongs have been done,
What rights may remain.
What lies about
And, in truth, what does not.
For the knot that was tied
Was unravelled by tide
of revels disguised
as love.
To hold what is dear, take joy, receive love?
“l’oeuf”, all that remains – zilch zero.
Game over, set on fire, match now struck
None in clover, condition dire, all out of luck.
Now all is dun.