How quick we were to light the flares and quicker still to fail.

This midnight stone of memory weighs the
heavy days behind me
when I was but a jesting clown
a strolling merrymaker
in the streets of my home town.

If London Bridge is truly falling down
where will pilgrims cross?
I cross
their hearts and hope
that Canterbury's safe.

It's a lack of something, don't know what
that puts me in this awful spot,
perhaps more weight is what I need to
fall down with the bridge and drown,
but
that is neither here nor there
not anywhere as far as I can see
when
I'm in this mood.

Food for thought and thus I'll never starve
but
always hungry nonetheless.

Sunday's smack me in the chops
when
all and sundry
even Monday
stops
and pours some tea.