For every storm there is a room
And find the palace now,
From deserts are a tomb and gloom,
Where clothes must just allow.

The clothing kisses us on cheek,
When effort made us worse,
The cloth we wear is rather chic,
And worry is a curse.

The storm shall grow at all the speed
That problems make us mad,
You did not follow, or then bleed
As madness is your dad.