Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow...
And still it comes.
Word upon word.
Page upon page.
As time drips by to whence our tale must taketh to the stage.


A fight, a kiss, a cry.
Of loss, of rage, of blood.
From the new world of the women,
To the wild men of the mud.


Oh tell me wise sooth sayer,
'Pon this road that we all tread.
Can there be an absolution,
For those haunted in their bed?


When our set is up and ready.
When the costumes, cut and sewn.
Will there be another morrow, 
For this country we have grown?