The shallow edge of age has come to bear
And secrets of the young have gone to waste
With all the things you would perhaps compare
If you were waiting for a gentle taste.
A taste of things to come and aching bones
A taste of sleepless nights and restlessness
To know that nothing comes to he that moans
Yet saving comes from simply wasting less.
So tell him now that you just didn't know
That you had trapped him once again in rhymes
And left him with no choice in where to go
But where you had been twenty thousand times.
You dropped the cup and water's falling out,
But it's too late to warn them with a shout.
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