Fame Is Not That Great, ljóð frá 3. janúar 2017.

Telling from the tale,

taming every nightingale.

Love, her name in lines...

like to sing,

nibbling, knowing,

not for going rich?

Must be in the mines,

may she love, not sting!

For the fortune, rowing,

fame is not that great, when she's the bitch.

 

Wind it down, just west,

war you see is not best.

I wished that she just words

would then use

to get me going.

Gladness in the heart?

Lost in Heaven's herds,

how we're bound to lose!

Ball of bile just throwing,

better go up ready for the start.

 

Will they make you mad?

More of that or really sad?

What I need, just wait...

warlords, she?

The girl is growing,

get the feeling, wrong?

Best, so boring, late,

bound in tunnels, we?

She is easy, sewing,

says that I'm the one who's ready, strong...