These days I can't even pretend
Lord please find an angel to send
Lord please tell me my death is on pend
I've been lying on this bed called,"being suicidal," that I am now failing to stand.
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.