I often saw her sitting so fragile,
Condemned by the court of time,
In that place of broken bodies and minds,
Where all that's left is the dimming past.
The canons have thrust their last fusillade
And the snapping sounds of rifles have abated
After dispatching their lethal messages.
Bodies, still strewn in their grotesque forms,
Many think our sport is the rocking chair
When we reach the age of medicare.
Many say we're not where it's at
When our muscles give way to fat.