(Written while drunk --- and getting more drunk.)
|A poet sat alone one night|
and thought about his dreams.
He thought about his plans for life;
his foolish little schemes.
His heart was open to the stars,
though they to him were closed,
yet opened to their own demise.
'Twas this which he opposed.
A poet sat alone one night
and dream'd about his thoughts.
He numbered all the good he'd done,
and managed just with noughts.
Oh, who would count the poet's faults?
Yes, who could count so high?
Who'd dare to ask why he so lov'd
or ask his reasons why?
A poet sat alone that night
and dreamed a perfect sky.
He thought about a way to live,
but found a way to die.