This Is the Gift
This is the Gift
Life is a trap with iron jaws
Merciless to the last degree,
My father beat us well enough
And Fortune always flee from me.
What is Life without Romance
But the grim parade of corpses?
Shadows, illusion and poor sparse soil
That kills you as you till it.
I wear a leper’s clothing
It’s all than I have left:
I can’t remove the rancor I feel
For the author of this madness.
Trapped? Cramped? Bit to the bone?
Paralyzed in Arctic graves?
Promises: denied, denied, denied?
This is the gift that God gave.
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