Ending
Age
The
chances that I had are gone
The
sheep are sheared
The
hair's bleached blonde
And
what have I left to do
But
mould a moody shade of blue
A
culture teaming with the spawn
The
planning application's drawn
And
what have I left to wish
That
we shoal peacefully as fish
The
boat has docked
The
hold unloads
If
I could write a pretty ode
I
would join this ending age
And
close the old book's final page
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