When it's late Don't mess with sticky notions Don't fool with dangerous spaces There is no peace in such locations And time shall have all traces Of the needed restraint and sobriety To see us to our dotage
But then How else are we to grow? And then again Who wants a dotage?
Because when it's late Mocking caverns of reality yawn And toil tedium and trivia Are in the eyes of statues And these cry glass marble tears Because they cannot move They cannot leave the ground Their lowered heads like ageing flowers Sadly shrunken and dried With a gluttony of hours And all love of life long gone That's when it's late