A waning, singing rainbow, in the sky,
Telling tales of old, tragic days that died,
Whose ancient rhythms cannot ever lie,
Or retreat like winter, for whom we cried,
When her old tragic day died so quickly.
The endeavour of some greater purpose,
Which took hold so fast, so soon, so coldly,
Yet released with a sudden gaze morose,
The lying heathen and the fickle man,
Whose Words did spread so suddenly among
The great public, that ancient epigram,
The knowledge that it seems we all belong
To the greatest joke in history, or more,
The catchphrase of the universe's whore.

The End

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