After the magic man had packed up and gone we left too and never saw who they pulled out of the hat to take his place, in any case the pretender to his throne had been known to stack the deck in his favour.
Across town where the Sun never shone, where the daffodils died for want of its song, we drunk ourselves senseless aware yet unwilling to get the last beer in lest morning should come.
Things get in the way of things we should do, like the excuses we use.
you wouldn't walk a mile in my shoes I wouldn't want to walk the same mile in yours.
Doors. entrances and each give chances to enter or leave, unless the doors's ajar full of gin in a bar on the other side of town.
The man with his magic tricks sticks up *******, a Churchill impression.
Someone shovels up the sawdust someone just sits there and weeps someone calls out for another cold beer and someone sleeps,
pictures from yesterday's camera, an album in the suitcase of dreams.