i could just hand you the bottle
and none of the worries will be bothered
and when the hobo wears his Sunday clothes
we’ll all be ready to hear his story’s unfold
and his lucky cards, they’ll all turn up
coming from all men, will their praises erupt
singing shame, in the prettiest ways
will he always remember these lucky days?
does he know one day the clocks will turn sour?
and his mind’s only leader, will begin to speak,
“Never look to the hours!”
or condemn the mind to blindly seek
who’ll wait around, for some fifteen years
wondering why it’s still stranded here
and the blood thins in the cold
nothing is rehearsed
even his sails are cursed
for they refuse to even unfold
and that double-eared speaker,
sat us down, and planted a seed
and convinced him to have his story’s retold
Well, he mockingly agreed…
for all of them are far too old.
