We will grow old,
You and me,
Grow back in time,
To where the bicycles
Were lopsided
And the streets very much
Old brick road,

With the oil lamps
And quiet nights spent
By candlelight,

With the weeping parchment
Blown to dry,
Scratched meticulously
By a dancing feather, oh

We will grow old.

And come back to the little
Park bench where we used to
Sit. Count the cracked, granite
Pillars that paint the
Pathways of the Champs Elyseé,
Or Bagumbayan,

Dance alone,
Along the Great Wall,
And sing, you and me,

With a Grand Piano and
Giant mandolin and everything.

And we will wear coats and ties
And flowing skirts
And hike our way down
To the cul-de-sacs of Venetian Manila,

Where the bridges are still
Shores of sea, on which
Young lovers, friends, students, artisans
Still comb for pearls,

Yes, indeed, we will grow old.

I fight quietly at dawn's
Candlelight, fight softly
But surely with genteel
Fist—heart—

Softly beating—ticking—
Like a clock—dancing—tik—
Dancing—tok—hammering
The ghosts that frequent
These halls—
The white washed walls—
Which shrink at the sight

Of dawn—beautiful dawn!
And day—O luminous day!

I’ve been hauling a lot of baggage lately,
And they strike me as quite useless.

It’s like how Patrick brought a suitcase full of rocks
To the Krusty Tower just so that he’d have
Something to bring to the hotel
With a useless employee elevator.

The things we carry around with us
Are a lot like that—unnecessary
Backbreakers that threaten to unhinge us.

And days like this make me feel like Squidward:
Stuffy nose, heavy suction cups for feet.

Days like this make me want
To sit down.

Days like this make my food taste like they’ve
All been covered in cheese, toenail clippings,
And nose hair, which by the way reminds me—

“We shall never deny a guest,
“Even the most ridiculous request.”

(Days like this only lasts an episode.)
(Which is like, thirty minutes.)
(So keep going.)