oh what use am i to thee
in mine own fine company?
a drink in hand
cheap whiskey brand
i'm on my own again, you see

Oh winter birds,
with your songs of frost and rain;
sing for me a morning chorus,
of summer suns again.

There are daffodils with butterflies,
fast-fluttering behind my eyes;
a chrysalis of hopes and dreams
maturing, and then taking wing.
Heather blooms, a hazy prize
of sun beams, and purple cries;
a weathered storm of little lies
I tell myself, to sleep at night.

Is that a humble bumble bee
buzzing softly by my ear?
Tell me, good sir humble bee,
why aren't your bumbles clear?
If only I could understand
your honeyed drone, my dear.

Dreams are fickle beasts
They hop from eye to eye
Chasing rainbows drawn
on brain-lit black skies

What forlorn nights this lonesome poetry begets.
My voice, attuned to solitude, sings a desolate duet.
The only voice that answers mine is baritone regret;
and yet
I wear my words upon my head: a gaudy coronet.