Stitched shroud for the dying Sun

Crafting none, and emptiness. Man that day you left would be the last one’d know a home. On the wicked way you glanced and twirled; oh Lord, thou like the hurricanes. I’d chill. Ain’t winter on the block? Shall I flint and eye the window, you’d be nicknamed to snowflakes. Beliefs. They force that. And they did when I was younger and dried your tears for your mama, so we'd time, shine and come to cheat your place and pick mine to disgrace on the enemy of summer. On summer I’d be gone and my soul to San Francisco, where Id play hustler for mission, them love bursting once again. Dollar men, those are no crying-for. But I know it’d be not enough, for those thugs ain’t really rough. So I stay on the block. You liked clothing patterns. I suppose it affected me; for the idea of waiting eons - cause lonely winters are as demolishing as a timeless fear - for the sun to drop another crying orphan here seems to me a harsh and pleasant remedy.