Day by day, I'm slowly giving up.
I no longer want to raise the Cup.
No point of a Cup for a year or 2.
When they always take if off you.
In every direction, I look or peer.
I see loneliness and of that I fear.
I felt love once, but that did fade.
Now of being alone, I'm so afraid.
The Cup feels great, held up high.
But bit by bit, those promises die.
Time goes on, land becomes sea.
The Cup passes hands...ok by me.