The last drop of water has been poured out of the bottle.
As the four riders get their mustangs and release the throttle.
While the host of all the forget-me-nots hit the last wall.
Every last flower's been cut short and none stands tall.
All the routine's are suffocated to the point of stagnation.
No more itches, life, death, and all the wondrous irritation.
The final whine has been robbed out of every moan.
All creation releases it's great anti-climax, the pathetic groan.
A few wide eyed and mystified celestial junkies are left.
Those who have accepted an ancient, romantic theft.
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