It's just a song about life's various prisms,
how they refract and reflect the worst in us
and how we overcome them through grief.

Casanova's oases floating on a mirage
and her hand creeps through a dream,
strangling the fragmented delusions
I've had since I was seventeen.
Germany's Fourth Reich commanded me to do it,
but no one listens to Schitler anymore.
Life, she said, is a mortal technique
of climaxes, wishbones and figure eights
running parallel to one another
but no one listens to Biczler anymore.
But we did once, in clovered field
as we shot down the days 'til
we couldn't see the shine for the sun.
And Casanova, being a dilettante,
forgot the ingredients for the nettle soup
so we had to make do with sex
which I and most the rest of us were not fully prepared for.
Needless to say, four kids came of that night,
but it was Casanova's mirage that stung the most.
He was never the same after that,
for he gave it a name and doted pre-natal.
It's buried in box in a field of Christmases and birthdays.
He intoxicated himself on liquor
and sang songs of mourning and refracting prisms,
but no one listens to a Pissler anymore.

Rocky believed in a Serengeti artform,
the graces and gaffes of giraffes and gazelles
as they bellowed their mating calls under fat moons.
Germany is a distant memory,
the shadow you see within another,
slightly darker, but letting light enter nevernonetheless.
Pygmies call him Mputi ta Dawuke Leboho,
The Box o' Bones Man.
One's missing, perhaps a sacrificial gesture
or an exorcism of some malevolent memorial virus
latching onto his hippocampus and feeding.
He's a Lance Corporal in the pygmy army
because he can knee one in the head from twenty paces
but he never writes about any of that,
I'm just guessing and I'm not very good at that.
He still grieves for something that would never have been his,
but I suppose it affected us all,
after I was told by greater people than me
to kick her in the stomach for a sip of ambrosia.
They struck me a leper and to make repairs
they sent Rocky to Sub-Sahara
and me, I had to stay in Germany and retire
to a farm fit for beans and nothing else.

This is just a memory technique
to remember the reflection of self-loathing
in the glowing growing whites of your eyes.
This jumps back and forth between being humorous and light hearted with the whole nettle soup and pygmy things; then trying to describe the struggles honestly. The whole vision of a dream and abstractness you established right away seemed lost, like it was abandoned to include a few lines that you wrote separately but wanted to include.

The raw materials are here, but I would rethink this one in one sitting with one voice.