I take a breathing space
to find my place
somewhere out there,
just in case
I run out of time.

The needle points less
to pointless pleasure,
I stick it to me
what
joy,
what treasure.

On the carousel
I go round the circus
we call hell and can you tell me
why this is so?

But is this a sequel or a prequel
or just the interlude? or
is
this real time in the breathing space?

The clock face tells me another tale
of seagulls flying,
of ships and sail
and a Martinique where lovers seek
the holy grail.

I race on but time outstrips me
and in the script we
did not see,
penned there in red ink
the words,

'don't you ever think we'll let you go'