Poets, artists, free-thinkers,
Those who are mad and young and crazy and magic
Who sprinkle glitter under their eyes
And run about the night city streets
and flit about in a dazzling, burning light
who are enchanted by the very world in front of their
long criss-crossed lashes.

But very few wear those round rose-coloured glasses
In which I view the world through

Who, Like some dreaming Tom Thumb
Will happily sew patches
Embroidered in free-footed ecstasy