Late after midnight I am quashing a
feeling; my eyes are twisted to another
realm, and I walk alone. Misfits make the
bridgework work, two-fisted hamstring
men climbing over cables and beams. It's
always another tomorrow, or so it seems.
The jaunty fellow with the wellspring hat,
he is walking towards me holding yet another
Bible. I want to hit him this time good.
That girl nearby, she has marinara legs,
and I'd sure love to get in that sauce,
and should. Park it over here, lady.
Some geek is playing digital music from an
overhead high-hat perch. He sits in his aerie,
a balcony like an evil Heaven, looking down.
I used to know him then, but now it's now.
Her sister was Millie O'Malley or Molly
MacGuire. One of those ancient runes.
Drinking Maker's Mark like this can cause time
to last forever. Would that it were so, and that
every shot brought a shot of love, and a place
to hide the loot, a closet full of lucre, and a
model made of lead. Now I've got nothing but
distaff markings, and a tattoo on my head. These
loves should last forever, and I surely hope
they will, but playing other tunes,
a different music then, instead.