When the night shows The postcount grows on forum-os All the strange things They come and go, as early warnings Stranded stick-figs have no place to hide Still waiting for the swollen Zanclean tide There's no point in direction we cannot Even choose a side. They took the old track The hollow shoulder, across the waters On the tall cliffs They were getting older, Megs and Cueballs The jaded Timewaiters were riding high Waves of posts hurled theories at the sky And as the water rose in frame, the Waiters called "Again!" "Again!" Lord, here comes the flood We'll say goodbye to stick-fig buds If again the seas are silent And any still alive It'll be those who gave their beanies to survive Drink up, waiters, you're running dry.
Posted on 2013-07-24 04:17 by Arky.