The ghosts, they thrive, for they don’t know
they’re not alive, they’re not alive.
Relentless stars, too, never knew
that they should wane, that they should wane.  

Daquiris soothe with slushy fruit, enspiriting with booze.
Defiant, I sit, at Death, I spit,
a ragged saint, a battered bonepile,
relentlessly alive, on earth emparadised.