How sweet, to have no purposes in sight:
Those wandering can never lose their way,
Captured by the unmaking of the day,
Swirling towards the center of the night.

Mad men parade in endless roundabout
Across the clover tables and red glows,
And the ghost thread of time just barely flows
Till the last broken gambler cashes out

But sticks around, still looking for a chance
To tango to another kind of dance
And they smell so good, the midnight flowers.

Come look for them, beyond the neon haze,
Sink into their unquestioning embrace,
They will love you forever for an hour.