It's winter on the boardwalk
The hotel rooms are boarded up
The passenger on the veranda
is stranded in an hour glass,
staring dumb at a frail curtain,
the sand piles up then erodes
around his legs.
Were a comet to appear from under the horizon,
and size Mr. Jolly face to face, stranded there haplessly on the beach
it would prove conclusively, that not because you breathe you live
In the mean, meanwhile Ethel Mermaid whales the old goat
the sad, lament, that you don't have a ghost of a chance.
Wrong, chanteuse, ghosts don't pray.
I still do.
No comments:
Post a Comment