gone are the days
when frail old men appeared in the looking glass
to be full of song and wine
they sit back now and spin their tales
on the summer night breeze with knitting needles
and crayola crayons
mischief in their eyes for the season is upon them
no better place to reap ruin than midsummer night
no better time than now
polyester suits now march in unison
cheap shoes clicking on the hardscrabble
a bare toothy grin echoes the moonlight
these once frail old men are a force to be reckoned with after all
they march on through the pine forest of night
into the creeping dawn
they knit madly and draw with crayons recklessly
in a crescendo of insanity's come to fruition
these looking glass souls with cheap shoes and ties
these johnny-come-lately wind up madmen
gone are the days when you could dismiss them
they have come to own the night
when they hold court over all the world
in the looking glass