Oh, The Irony, To Find Your Last 24 were Yesterday.
Dust to Dust, Sand that Counts the Minutes, Watch the time pass, the shape the shine, the curve of the hour glass.
Fickle Brittle, Break then Change Then Break.
If Birth has a day and death has a rate, who’s winning this race to heaven or hell. The graves they rob themselves.
What is certain, what’s for sure, we’re taxed for life, taxed til death, then taxed for more.
Put a price on what we have left, the graves they rob themselves