No willow tree to toss his hair
no paloma bianca in white to clad
this is the bench seated in despair
of creatures upon the earth widespread
of features upon the surface unsaid
he smiles at the crowds
the crowds go mad
he laughs at the clouds
in white to clad
and it's  a smile no one can bear
horrible laughter of a mutant pain
the customs at which there's nothing to declare
no belief no relief no grief
just a sky and a grin
despair is his sin