When the Plough is rusted, and the cloak has mottled
As the clock slows it's hand, when the chair will no longer stand...
There's the Trash Dragon's Sway
What is built shall fall some day, what is hewn shall rot
What is sewn shall be ripped away, when what is working now s not
There's the Trash Dragon's Sway
She wraps herself in freshly broken things
This is her cloak of many colors
Torn and tattered canvasses span her wings...
Flawed obsidian daggers glitter in her used chewing gums
What is broken is her domain, things that are lost and will never be found
The rubbish heap and the thrown away
And souls that wander aimlessly through the burial ground
That's the Trash Dragon's Sway
Long forgotten booty of dead man's chests, and their spirits that search and never rest
Wooden horses that once rocked away, and one armed dolls that feed at her breast
There the Trash Dragon sways
She wraps herself in freshly broken things
This is her cloak of many colors
Torn and tattered canvasses span her wings
Flawed obsidian daggers, how they glitter
And when she rises
A miasma of mold and must Sea dew and rust
The ragged rot of a thousand aeons rains down