A traffic cone needs no gloss
A howling crone is a bad boss
A melodic poem utters the truth
A mobile phone needs you as boss
A calling card is an archaic proof
A falling brick can knock your hat off
Was it for this God died on a Cross?
Oh Jesus Christ what a great loss
Now the trees look blacker on the sky
No clouds pass and dead leaves glumly lie
A small bird chirps,an old cat potters by
In the house I hear a baby’s cry
All the natural world is brown today.
The sky is pale, the tree is dark again
Hardly moving in the breeze so light
Nothing seems to change,to bring us light