| 'The time has come,' he said
|
| With talk of cabbages and kings
|
| He died in bed
|
| And though he seemed unsure
|
| The walrus in him knew the place
|
| And asked no more
|
| Tall sister shakes her head
|
| No need to hear the voice
|
| In tones of measured lead
|
| And waiting by the door
|
| The next in line will close his eyes and hang his head
|
| He won’t wait
|
| As the reel of age unwinds
|
| Upon the floor the perfect frames
|
| Are hard to find
|
| Editing the sense from senseless
|
| All forces too intense
|
| Are fossilized in white
|
| Seen through a looking-glass
|
| Some madmen know the truth
|
| While fools won’t dare to ask
|
| 'The time has come,' he said
|
| With talk of cabbages and kings
|
| He died in bed and asked no more
|
| While sunk in memories
|
| He kept no promises to mend his broken ways
|
| No last ditch piety
|
| To send him honestly into some empty space
|
| My hand against the sky
|
| With fingers spread, another tree
|
| Though half as wise
|
| Seen through a looking-glass
|
| Some madmen know the truth
|
| While fools won’t dare to ask what times will come |