Prophesying, with accents terrible, of dire combustion and confused events new hatched to th’ woeful time.
Greasy heaps of ashes, miraculously but ungratefully awake, walking
pridefully around in the sunlight, japing and hollering, preening and
bragging, unconcerned that we are but cinders tossed up by the wind, too
often ungrateful for the brief gift of being alive.