The rainbow fell into the consommé,
the night turned the day and the
cards went my way
it was normal some say in
the madhouse
and then there was work
the foibles, the quirks
the bright sparks
the gormless
the sharks
and while Hawkin's talking of quarks
and quasars
all I get
is quizzical, looks from the
bar staff and waiters.
It's no wonder the soup's getting cold
and less wondering why
because it all seems so old
or could be it's
possibly me.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
The rainbow fell into the consommé,
the night turned the day and the
cards went my way
it was normal some say in
the madhouse
and then there was work
the foibles, the quirks
the bright sparks
the gormless
the sharks
and while Hawkin's talking of quarks
and quasars
all I get
is quizzical, looks from the
bar staff and waiters.
It's no wonder the soup's getting cold
and less wondering why
because it all seems so old
or could be it's
possibly me.
Nothing is relative if you don't relate to it.
Request permission to use this poem