As cloth of brilliant white, we're born
From the great bolt of life we're shorn
No colours or crest to adorn
Just fresh, and clean, and new

The stains we gain along the way
are just the start of our decay
A tear, a stretch, a rip each day
we take on the abuse

To look at the colours we gain
blood and sweat and lipstick stain
the marks of love, and work, and pain
stained upon our souls

The hands keep marching 'round the face
At their ticking, tocking pace
Until, alas, we all embrace
The comfort of oblivion

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Valnuary, in the year 785 AF.