An Unmarked Grave

The Nightingale sang her melody

For all the world to hear.

She sang it boisterous, she sang it valid

To such had an ear.

Until one day that brilliance flying creature,

She arrived on a wire,

Also, an extraordinary wire was this,

Be that as it may, spiked, and cut like fire.

Her melody tune changed, with urgent cry.

Once more, she lease the air,

Be that as it may, excellence did her melody currently need

What's more, t'was not, at this point reasonable.

Reflected in that tune so severe

The consuming of her chest,

The hurting, spiked, spouting opening

Through which she recolored her vest.

When blanketed white, presently red with blood,

Her head, it drooped so low.

What's more, with one squeak, her eyes did close.

No more were they to sparkle.

What's more, however her enchantment melody is no more,

No more to favor the ear,

Nobody will miss her voice or tune

Nor grieve her going here.

For some, different winged animals will sing

Furthermore, most as sweet as she,

In any case, ne'er again will it be heard

That voice that was so free.

Furthermore, there she stayed, on thistle so hard

Until she fell away.

Just an imprint, a stain of red

Shows really where she lay.