A few accepted, a few were not home so were undelivered
To those in acceptance and have read , please be there by the evening
I have penned, the fires, and the mires as my swan song
I need a lyrist, a flautist, a marimbist, leave the choir, I am in solo
As we approach the oranging dusk, I shall take stage by the banks
I have worn my favourite attire, overalls of my own verses of you, in prints
It could be unreadable from far, they are those read ones, just know
At the first tick of Seven, on the summer solstice this upcoming evening
I shall sing a song of her, to begin with, a fairly long one, of five minutes
Further to be followed by a minute of parting verses, strung in grand agony,
I have a good lyrist I hope! to strum the agony just as deep
At the approach of the seventh minute, you shall hear a confession, another five minuter
I could take requests too, I have been a bard of my own misadventures, but not this time
As the dimming lights reflect on my final unblinking,
I shall sing a gentle verse
Post which, I sing my final good bye, bidding a thank you to all those who arrived.
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