A man was there, wretched, cold and money-less;
He wondered what he did that he was in such a mess:
Was it loving and making his world revolve and remain static
Or was it because to the other world he was empathetic?
The man was the Keeper of the Universe and yet
Which Universe would keep his worry, fuss and fret?
The friends that he thought he had, were but other planets
And thus he resorts to writing strange sonnets.
Hear him out y’all, hear him out at least, and give your ears a feast:
And especially the one that was his sun he deserves that at least.
Of money shall he talk about, the green he does not have
So drowns he in the open sea better than to be a slave;
And talks he about misery, the misery of a friend
And the helplessness he feels for the misery he cannot end;
The cold does not help his cause and yet smile must he
For in the freezing winter nights the world’s beacon is he;
Alas, the man feels the need to cast himself off the sky
But what would the world achieve alas, if he were to die?
The man was the Keeper of the Universe and yet
Which universe would keep his worry, fuss and fret?
The friends that he thought he had, were but other planets
And thus he resorts to writing strange sonnets.
