But a man of mischief
Pitching tents in imaginary lands
Of foreign domain
While the grass on which
His feet are planted
Withers away into brown
Slowly dying, to dust it returns
As brittle bones plagued by disease
Saint Elsewhere is no saint at all
But a sly robber, a taker
Of happiness, stealth, zest for today
He boasts of greener pastures and fruits
Sweeter than fine honey
But he is a man of fairy tales
Delusions that snatch him from now
Saint Elsewhere is a mockery to his own name
A demon masked by the sun's rays at day,
The moon's shadow at night
Saint Elsewhere to thy grave you go
On with you
Rest in peace
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