The FTSE 100 plunged into a dark abyss
The missile strikes are more hit than miss
Stocks and shares, world markets crash
Burning buildings collapse and turn to ash

War is now raging and cities on fire
Citizens ready for the funeral pyre
Billowing smoke like a low black cloud
The smell of death hanging like a morbid shroud

Toilet rolls running out, bread will disappear
Bulk buying in panic, people driven by fear
Oil fields destroyed, there’s a fuel price spike
Start rationing food, its just what we like

I was watching the news and I laughed
there's really no need for a draft
'cuz I'm sure all his cunts
volunteer for the fronts
to be blunt, they're the dunces and daft

Wishful thinking
The warm days
In the fall are over
Now I have to
Be thankful
For the warm days
My Father gave to me
Now the warm days are over
And the leaves are changing
Its color
From green to gold
Yes there are some dead leaves
In the ground
Some people are raking
The dead leaves
Couple more days
And thangs giving will
Be here
We will share a meal with
Our families
And at the same time
We will give thanks to God
For what we have

A world-famous
brand of dark, Irish dry stout
inflation pushed the price
of a pint above six euros ($7.08),
and found the madding crowd
"absolutely wild" and ready to rout
they got spooked when they saw me
how ghastly I looked,
no idea what this Mötley Crüe...
arch! time machine burnout
re: major malfunction
must be the cause,
I strongly suspected
mine major disorientation about
my physical environment
to a bad dream
but...this can't be feasible
cause I see the ghost

No place I’d rather be
Than here where your spirit settles me,
Looking into the soft glow of your eyes
As your warmth pulls me deeper inside.

What a gift you carry with grace,
A perfect smile that brightens the space,
Shining like daylight cutting through night—
Girl, you’ve always been your own kind of light.

Pulled into your orbit,
I move where your light pulls through.
Pulled into your orbit—
That’s the gravity of you.

Deep down below, the hollow echoes of musty dampbreath and misty song air
Shattered wishing stones tossed beyond the black, howling scare

Lies the reaping sounds of clanking, jingles of tattered threads sewing
Filling sandbags of time
Very little seen, very little showing

Sowed seeds planted within a captive nativity shell
Ready for the harvest, the Gothies dwell

There’s a considered hesitation
A heavy shuffling of your feet,
A despondency when you realise
There is no one here to meet.

There’s a sense of desperation
As you gaze your red eyes down,
Your outlook sadly hollowed
Your sorrow, written in a frown.

Slowly, your tears are tracking
Along deep loneliness lines,
Though keenly etched and furrowed
Wearily, no one attends the signs.