How’s a  flamboyant campfire in its last hours?

Danced and drunk around,

Then bereft of the music,

And left to be burnt alone.

How’s an untainted drop of rain in its fall?

Squirting mad to cuddle sludge,

Then blamed of its filth,

To be rebounded to eleven pieces.

How’s the mighty sun in twilight?

After a day of illuminating visors,

Who shut the door on its face at dusk,

And let it drown alone.

How’s a burly glass of beer in its last sip?

Drunk from,

To hush one’s grief,

Then spurned like a whore,

At a foreigner’s lips, besmirched, bare.