A fevered dream, a rapid hope.
A moonbeam through a telescope,
So fragile now it comes and goes.
I'll keep my staggering, drunken throes.
A string of words, a simple sin
narrated from the bottle-bin.
I'll lie in stupor, the memories flash.
Quite blown away, a cloud of ash.
A gossip prates "Oh how obscene!"
I'll keep my drags of nicotine.
"That stupid bitch" the half hearts moan.
"I need someone to call my own!" they'll cry.
But soundless nods, my only gift to offer.
I'll keep my steady silent drift.
"You're way too funny, too slick to think,
about pounding mattress springs!"
My reply...
"Stick around, pass me a drink.
I'll show you how sad Jesters sing..."
