The irony is like a sour candy I’ve grown fond of. I keep opening up that bright red wrapper. This young fool keeps falling for the simple trick. (In this case) it is worse to give the baby back his sucker. The irony is like a stinking smoke I breath deeply. I keep opening up Pandora's box. This young schmuck keeps sticking it and stepping in Cordoned chambers with pretty locks. The irony is like Philistine oil on my temples. I keep leaning on Delilah's perfume. This young dreamer is puzzling the wrong riddle. No secret weakness bound up in her costume. The irony is like the foundation of a lily. I keep jumping on that Nymphaean bed. This young son needs more than faith to rest on waters. It's a game that left poor Hyacinth dead. The irony is like a hungover memory I can't reckon. I keep passing out time that I'd rather forget. This young thinker has a Lethean mix for his panic, Libations that free up great revel and regret. The irony is the truth was always simple. I kept thinking and looking for a better answer. This broken man is made well today. He's given strength, drawn to the light, and shown the way.