The Path Of Least Persistence (Figure II)

There goes your mother and her plague What a terrible display Of a charcoaled tongue That wouldn't lend a hand Though this dead was a thoughtless act With alcohol intact Quietly she seeks the day to pa*s With those stitches that you clean You hold your flag of your doleful plea Now there's nothing left to recall A fruitless title bestowed Amongst someone you could never know In this plight of this dismay This thickness of your plague She's a realm that's lost her way