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The Death in the Widower
sleep, pretty widower
welcome to the endless noise of regret
for tommorow brings you no polite gift of solace
and grants you no permission to publicly mourn your loss
He hurts, he wants, he takes
old joy only you can nurture back to reality
for in this reality, there is no future happy
So place your holy book of comfort
under your pillow on this sorrowful morn'
sleep on your prayers
for only they can hold you tonight
resist suicide medicine
wear yellow hope on your expressions tommorow
invite hope into your eyes
but for tonight
beautiful princess of calamity
I beg of you
for it is the only snakeoil I can sell you
sleep, pretty widower.
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