All the canaries are dead

My friend this is not in your head

“Tween coal mines and “putty tats”

There just are no more of them left.

The heft which you use to perspire

Leads me to want to retire

Alone with you into private

I just need some place i can drive it.

A break in the poem’s a new topic

I decided to let you come off it.

And explain to your people your reason

None of your cooking is seasoned.