Morose Colored Glasses

Sweet reminiscence glows like the poison in the air
that lends incandescence to sunset. "So, why should I care?"
everyone knows a dullard asks. So I'll just stare
through my morose colored glasses.
All God's creatures pose with an empty hour glass,
Keane painting features the sole defense this army has.
"What good are those?" a dullard asks, so please just pass
me my morose colored glasses.
What good's the man who throws his hands up in distress?
Well he can scare away the birds I guess.
What good's the promise of love's sweet healing caress?
The muffled grave where it's interred - there's no peace in this rest.
Gaggles of Ghandis cry out "Everything must pass!"
That may be so, but what's the rush, I ask.
There's no hard feelings; just a squishy pulpy mass
of pastel sentiment, but hush - baby's sleeping at last.
If man reflects, he might question why the angels sing,
but there's something sexy about the end of everything.
To prove how hard his cock can be, he's hammering a fuckhole in eternity. One final fling!
"Who gets the rights?" A dullard asks, so I just cling
to my morose colored glasses.