This was once the floor I laid
Whom I craved and so adored…
One I was hundred percent sure
Until it mixed my baking flour
With beautiful ashes and dust
Covering gun powder and rust.
Hence, I am a running fly
Running from sorrows and lies
Pouring down like southern rain
Served as cakes, to wash my brain
On and by the floor, where I lie
Is a place I never wish to die.