Men are waiting patiently; Remove me from the scene, A sea of faceless souls in suits. A sight for eyes, like thumbs; Sore, crooked, and bow and foul relief. You have been exposed. Your eyes speak well of you. They play my requiem to A closed-casket burial. Your conspiracy; Conspiring to deliver me to the authorities. I have been betrayed so graciously. My bloodhounds are hooked on a trail of ink Which led me to the words you scribbled down; An obituary dedicated to me. Your fingers are star-crossed lovers that can't seem to get enough of each other. This pantomime dialect doesn't practice what you preach. I might as well be blind with isolated eyes like mine.