Your nag is not the champa,
The scent will never be the same,
It's nauseous permanence a damper,
In memoriam of empty game.
So pass me the fragrant note,
One that rings white pure,
In memory of love and respect,
It's bound in smoke, folklore.
You're doing alright Jacque,
You have support, go on fly.
Now don't you dare look back.
Stay focused on your sky.
Because the snake tree smells putrid,
It's toxic venom oozes red.
And the smell that once was lucid,
Now reminds me of the dead.
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