The lovely nineteen is starting to wane, an apocalypse undone is such the shame.
My diva commands me to sing on que, she waves her baton just for you.
The puppeteer's hands will quiver and shake, they'll dust so easily before they wake.
My swordsman's bow is his weapon of choice, he's mute to a tone, but sings with a voice.

I wonder to myself, what it's all worth, giving my life such expansive girth.
As everyone does, I will do as told, and consider this gift a gift of gold.