Round and round they toil
Nestled within
Their own quaint skin

The nights erupt
With jubilant flare
A toast to the breathing
As they dance and swear

Round and round
As done before
Free to the whims
That singe the core

Still they dash for more
Their excuse for sorrow
That leaves some sore

Nights are reserved
For demolition
But days lead on
As the living affliction

Round and round they toil
Nestled within
Their own quaint skin

Still they dash for more
Their excuse for sorrow
They grow to deplore