The morning comes, a spiteful wife
to this gray landfill of my life
the sky's dull red, my mood rotten
the clouds like dirty wads of cotton

above me soar, I think they gloat
to see the beached hulk of my boat.
The years made more melancholy
one born somewhat less than jolly.

As Dawn's chill fog starts to abate
the damned angels will have to wait.