by Note: Okay this one may be a bit long
Sometimes you can hear the singing,
Of the sorrow to come, leaving your ears ringing.
This isn't normal singing, rather something different.
It's like a baratone opera, saying the difference
Between the cold, dirty theater he preforms in,
To the most famous opera house, where good deeds are sins.
Is not very much, even though they are alike
In so many ways, up and down, left and right.
This opera house is something of a dream,
It may be the dirtiest around, bit it manages to clean
Up for glorious acts, preformed in renouned sopranoes,
And baratones, are singing in harmony, and oh
What a marvelous dream this love is to all,
And how because of nauseous fever, lovers take the fall
The wonderful dirty house is a living graveyard,
And ever single life is broken to tiny shards.
The glorious days of the rose red show,
Drunken by love, tears, and final high hopes
For the sun to shine through, and light the path
To nowhere in particular, everyone's dream to crash,
Into the nowhere in time, and everything just stops,
And the opera house, is no longer a house, only so lop
Sided, and still so dark and dreary, but still.
A dream, just enough unreality to fit the bill.
And while a drunken poet lashes out his tale,
A more sensible one decides to pen what was stale.
For hope, and she listens to him slur every word,
He is so drunk, he feels, as if he was a bird
Free to fly the skies alone, just to get away
From the dirty bar he talks to everyday.
And the sensible poet leaves, quieter than a mouse,
To go to the last show at the dingy opera house.
Sometimes you can hear the singing,
Of the sorrow to come, leaving your ears ringing.
This isn't normal singing, rather something different.
It's like a baratone opera, saying the difference
Between the cold, dirty theater he preforms in,
To the most famous opera house, where good deeds are sins.
Is not very much, even though they are alike
In so many ways, up and down, left and right.
This opera house is something of a dream,
It may be the dirtiest around, bit it manages to clean
Up for glorious acts, preformed in renouned sopranoes,
And baratones, are singing in harmony, and oh
What a marvelous dream this love is to all,
And how because of nauseous fever, lovers take the fall
The wonderful dirty house is a living graveyard,
And ever single life is broken to tiny shards.
The glorious days of the rose red show,
Drunken by love, tears, and final high hopes
For the sun to shine through, and light the path
To nowhere in particular, everyone's dream to crash,
Into the nowhere in time, and everything just stops,
And the opera house, is no longer a house, only so lop
Sided, and still so dark and dreary, but still.
A dream, just enough unreality to fit the bill.
And while a drunken poet lashes out his tale,
A more sensible one decides to pen what was stale.
For hope, and she listens to him slur every word,
He is so drunk, he feels, as if he was a bird
Free to fly the skies alone, just to get away
From the dirty bar he talks to everyday.
And the sensible poet leaves, quieter than a mouse,
To go to the last show at the dingy opera house.
