Eight

Who will break your news, struggling to escape, last winter's blues, no horizon's bright, is your mark a stain, you're always right, it makes life a curfew, no dancing on waves, or fearing what to do, never mind the time, hear a donkey bray, you sit by a fire, before sunrise bears fruit, your tears seep away, no one can reach you, every wondered why, enquires about pain, make a long silent night, your moans are in tune, with a fortune at bay, hearing rain on the roof, you won't shout hurray.