In the realm where ments once played,
Where Jason Genova's tales were laid,
Now echoes silence, stark and gray,
The ments, like Genova, have gone astray.
Bone dry, the riverbed of joy,
Where once did Genova's antics deploy.
His banter's brook, his humor's stream,
Are but a parched and distant dream.
The sun of wit, once bright and high,
Now hides behind a cloudless sky.
The fertile fields of Genova's jest,
Lie fallow, empty, unexpressed.
The laughter's leaves have fallen down,
Genova's sunflower wears a frown.
The chuckle's chirping birds have flown,
In this desert, we stand alone.
Bone dry, the well of wit runs deep,
In this land where shadows creep.
The echoes of Genova's laughter past,
Are whispers in the howling blast.
Yet, in the heart, a hope does lie,
That Genova's ments will fill the sky.
And once again, the land will be,
Awash with waves of jollity.
Till then we tread on sands of sigh,
Underneath the humorless sky.
In this world, so stark, so sly,
We dream of days not bone dry.