The last wooing of pretty girls
Is compliments on their pretty white dresses
And how nicely it compliments their curls.
The last hoorah of a talented man
Is when he gets his corner office
And sits atop his pile of sand.
The madman!
His day is always exalted!
By legions of winged nyphettes-
And all their gods and goddesses.
He is not bound by rythms and he knows nothing of rhyme-
Save the counting of the heart beat to
the inescapable: time.
I think I'd rather break the code
Of daily life lived poorly
So I end up like the madman
With a ever-changing story.
And sit atop a heap of dead dragons in my Quixote glory!
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