romio lay dying on the cliffs above the marsh,
where birds called strange and musical and the wind blew strong and harsh,
To fill a cup of life up that you'd drain at one tough draught,
this was the place where romio was dying.

The multitude plucked flowers from the nettles by the road,
and wove wreathes of barbed wire from the gates that open stood,
And cried as they shed tears on the man who'd been so good,
And cared so much that Romio lay dying.

The women dressed up specially and spent months on a diet,
the men were asked not to speak and just stand dumb and quiet,
And they burned all the pornography starring juliette,
To remember that romio lay dying.

And someone called the doctor to look at all his wounds,
And the places where his flesh was torn from nales and from swords,
But the doctor's couldn't treat him because they'd not got the propper forms,
which is the reason, romio lay dying.

They photographed his boddy with a bulb and burning gas,
So everyone could facebook at the time that his life passed,
And all the girls could compare him to no one that there was,
with living images, romio lay dying.

The brass bands played a funeral march on drumbs bound tight in skin,
And all the people's hearts beat as their chests moved out and in,
And their sadness syncopations add a silence to the din,
So no one hears, that Romio is dying.

The streets are full of music and sorrow in each eye,
As Aeroplanes in cloud trails write swalk across the sky,
That sends down winds to blow the scraps of paper high,
So no one reads that Romio is dying.

But on the cliffs above the marsh I'll hear the silence fall,
As I carry up my torch to where the Kestrals call,
Because for all the noise and fuss I still feel within my soul,
The fact that Romio is dying.

I'll hate the people's sorrow and their sorry neon night,
But hating is so easy in the flicker of torch light,
As only strongest daylight is a cure against despite,
And the grief that Romio is dying.

When all the crowds forget and move on to another pain,
I'll still be standing hear in the breezes and the flame,
For seven ages of the world can pass and come again,
In the time that Romio is dying.

So go about your business or give sweet sympathy,
Or tell me that your sorry with a crocodile's tear,
for truth facades or lies are all the same to me,
Because still Romio is dying.