The gambit snaps leaving the boat all slack
With the whispering grey winds above
No doves, no doves
And the sailors all clasping their hands tight
As the maids make the night
More peaceful for all in their sight
Children play with their apple pies which were made
With care and magical obsession
For mother was never there
No she was never there
In the Fall or in the late of May
With this the household suffered many long years
Years that would never be thought of as
Successful
But what is success?
What does it smell or taste like?
But the burnt taste of ash flicked from one's former self,
But the after taste of charred burnt and buttered toast,
But the first wind when one opens the morning door to step outside.
We, oh what a word is we, used by a young man
That has seen some things but not everything
Oh and to see everything
One would be a fool to think and talk that way
That is why there are the roads unmade by man and God
That is why there are trees unplanted and yet to be grown
That is why there are flowers yet to picked
And young women yet to be licked
Fortune marries itself to itself under a wedlock flower garden
As all the children of all the towns
Are slowly rising from their beds