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Toil
I am as constant as the stars.
From your soul I shall never depart.
The fever grips her in large part
in the phase of popular charts.
For you I am forever in debt
about the things you never said.
Issue warnings of winter’s dread.
To see you is my one regret.
She bathes inside the plastic jar,
taking the joke much too far.
It pleases me to see you again.
In the summer the river runs red.
Believe me now for I have lied.
A thousand stars could never hide.
The last of us have been despoiled.
A hundred years we shall ever toil.
Copyright ©
Brian Bronson
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