An odd flock are we, strung on a wire
Purified by betrayal and fire
Too long have we lived, and yet never at all
So we’ll sing weeping tunes ‘til our time comes to fall.
We are misfits in a world of grotesques
Each face a character arabesque
Will we ever find roost in a place so demented?
Perhaps once the battlers have relented.
Each moment is stolen and each day a trial --
Though we carry the gifts of hope, goals, and denial;
Not much farther to fly, and the view may be clearer,
But will rich, sated moments ever be any dearer?