The days turn good, the days grow bad,
from cold to grave, from loud to sad,
though what befalls the joy of man
is more alike to chance than plan.
The whims of mood will drive one's fate
right out the door and through the gate,
to better times and better days
or unto sadness, none shall say.
Like butter melting on the stove,
I still await the calls of love;
I stand here waiting by the door,
awaiting what shall come no more.
Like twigs and branches in the flame,
I wither in my timeless shame;
so come the calls, so goes the plan—
my butter burns upon the pan.