Too Late

By Martin Stein

All musicians, sing this song:
I went wrong, oh so much wrong!

All you writers, drop this line:
Fine it would be, splendidly fine!

Painters, listen to your muse:
I'm just asking for excuse.

All you angels, hear my prayer:
If she were more here and less there ...

But the angels leave and grin:
Yours was the time, wasted by sin.
Drew the curtain by yourself
The book stands closed now on your shelf.
How many words you may unfurl
Evanescence, it rules the world.

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