Putty like a mac

The trèe gave up before the night began

As if on feeling there had been a ban

The sky was rosy beige but not enough

The artist had no interest in the brush

The shape is like a bow but long ànd thin

It don’t look like nobody can win.

Now the sky is putty like my Mac

The trees are falling over looking black

The sun ungracious took its fàce away

We will see no more of it todày