Stone Cold

He betake himself to his room Does a clear blue sky betokening a bright day? His motivating memory needs to retrace the day, The reverberating revival and the doom. In the boulevard, sloppy and slippery Derelicts yet living on the streets Where are the members of the expedition? Buster! Prominent players on the pains. In his fatherland, full of luxuries, Where he is used and kicked With nothing like honey moon or period His readiness is there forever, Like compatriots who look to their history. For words he wails in himself is not of doubt: What goes around, comes around And what comes the world goes the world. A deranged attacker, could he be?