I am glad I was your hone.

But
Shouldn't I get some kind of commission?

I've always found it quite tragic
That when we are mortal

We have nothing to say.

Immortality makes us drunk
And pour out our hearts

But in the real world
You put your armour on

Not afraid of I the alien
But they the comrades.

It is not enough to say sorry
And then continue on as before

But it's okay.

I forget you at the dance of my pen,
And the sway of my hips,

To                and                   fro.