The crisp sheet bedding pulled down to the floor,

my raised, tired brows have witnessed its lore

and I won't have much to say, if I don't return.

Easy risers don't give into pleas,

they don't take mess from the sleepy streets

and the abacus says, 'keep on counting…'


The law of the waking people greets with such heavy cymbals

and the morn' catches fire

you're the king who's crowned as they lay down!


A big day is brewing; shall we covet it more?

We owe our advances to the dormant corps

and the silence they display in their four-walled bunker.

My gait now quickens with the greatest of ease,

a shower of truth wrinkles head to feet,

and the answer of the day is ‘you've made it!'


The law of the waking people greets with such heavy cymbals

and the morn' catches fire

you're the king who's crowned as they lay down!


The law of the waking people greets with such heavy cymbals!