Let me live in the sunlight, but teleport me to the desert
if I must make amends for my folly, callous in love. I know
few gay, dainty, sprightly wishful tunes, I am not a singer,
nor songwriter, as my muse is often mired in decadence.
Wisdom, after five decades of being a smart-ass little boy,
has only taught me to live for today's pleasure, a slave
to pseudo happiness that is rekindled every week with new adventure,
new lies, all cut into pieces and served in a tall cocktail glass filled
with the chilled sweetness of a banana daiquiri I sip and slurp
as we -- my muse and I, of course -- compose ditties unworthy of
tweets chez Twitter at midnight. Oh I am tired of this frivolity.
I long for death to entrap me, wrap me, rapture me
in beautiful funeral music. Be quick! before drowsiness claims me!
Oh, gentle gods and goddesses of ethereal harmony
that I may hum gladly to your thrumming in the arms of eternity.
sunburnt and parched I stumble into the oasis' dream