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You, my friend, listen close:
My life is draining
Drop by drop –
Though the sky still stands where it stood,
It shall be raining
Quite soon,
Perhaps earlier than I thought it would.

Why would there be clouds at this hour?
Maybe to please some angel
Who could not tell
That I was truly crying,
And here I am
Chained up in hell
And tasting that brimstone far past dying.

Shall I ask God for a favor?
No:
He shall not do me fair.

Shall I ask my eyes for sight?
No:
I am blind beyond repair.

Shall I ask my kin for kindness?
No:
They are much too far away.

Shall I ask my friend for residence?
No:
They would not let me stay.

So who can I ask but myself for myself?
For I am the master of the rain,
The master of my own brain and head,
Of a thought that could not think much faster
And now look – He’s dead.

But wherever his spirit should go,
Let my dreams be evermore so:
A kind of throne that would comfort a king –
And a cursed Bible from which I would read –
A busy bee that would instinctively sting –
Dared I to touch it, and now do I bleed.