Smoke Stacks

The hours spent,
No books in hand,
It's all a waste,
Naught, but a scam.
No matter how the time
Dwindles down,
The candle burns,
And smoke runs high,
The work piles up
Stacks to the sky.
It'll never be done.
It'll never low, lie.
Because in the mirror
You can see what a wretch
Sits gazing blankly
With Jacks in her head.
She's despicable, yet
No remorse to be felt,
The unknowing good saints
Keep her by in their tread.
Then one night
In their sleep,
They are caught off their guard.
The whole village is burning,
No place left peace of mind.
The girl taken to pity,
No where to be found.
The smoke piles to the sky.
Stacks of work only lies
For the funeral heads,
Those poor saints who befriend.
But that wretched young witch
Is off fleeing, not nigh.