Author Information
Aphex Aphelion
The world is a rocking chair
Crying every turn a tenor tune
Singing you the wining song that you are old
Beating you but lower to the ground
And closer to your grave
Time is wasted on the old
Time but buries us
Under the heaving hour glass
Making us but dust within a desert
Needles within haystacks piled up
Close as youth is to the young
And close as death may come
As pigs locked in the pen
Born wild in a civilized world
Misfit toys do not belong
Misfit toys make firewood
For the enkindling ensemble which is life
Rock away the dismal day
And cry yourself but sour
For the ever dismal hour
