Ten minutes before I attend my ceremony
(Though I must admit, the suit that they gave me is horrendous)
And dear mother did not invite me to her gathering.
but I bow no arrow, I I heard it was a somber mourn
(I do not bemoan the cold)
And I walk into my house to see all of our picthres torn.
My Yosolo, do you not love me anymore?
I lament my invisibility towards your presence in the latter of our liason
And I weep for my regret of not having certainty in your moments of hesitation
I stand, Yosolo.
Pay me with soil
And galore me in a basket of velvet
I have allowed the desert eagle to fly over my head
And to contemplate exacerbated the dread.
I have arrived with my arms crossed and my eyes have dozed
And warm rain falling when the doors are closed.
My Yosolo is dead, and I won the war
In a bed of fresh cut grass
I lay a far.
Cease the white roses.
And cease the pitiful weep.
I am at Mercy Street now,
So leave me to sleep.