He has little sense of sorrow, He thinks of fond tomorrows. He’s a fabulist, a dreamer. Not quite a true schemer That would be too hard. More like a half-awake bard Making up poetic outcomes For a reality that never comes. Mostly he’s a ***.
He’s a moonbeamer, Sliding down colorless rainbows That he paints himself daily Proclaiming about how gaily The emptiness of his canvas Has so sadly missed us And somehow we are to blame For not managing to be the same As he is by appreciating That which is not there. He has daydreams to spare.
He shares his hopeful possibilities That are not always practicalities Made of unborn actualities And fanciful surrealities Painted over his shortcomings Hoping nobody will see them And talk too badly against them Ahem-ing and coughing phlegm When he orates and pontificates On his latest boilerplate stories Of his imagined future glories. Lost in his own thought stream, He’s a totally hopeless dreamer.