When the days temperature reaches into the infinite fires of the sun,
Blasting away from the rising asphalt,
The king of the finches flies and fusses over his dwindling dynasty.
Will you wonder where we've been?
Will you whine and wash our broken skin?
Trying to mend our misplaced mourning, for the brother that blasted away boredom.
The seas of tears that cascade upon your face,
Will wash away the taste of waste,
Of a life that seemed full of awe and glory,
Snuffed out in a scene all too gory.