Desolate is my middle name
And desolation my address;
Stranded in an empty-minded
Sea of pistol packin’ citizens
There’s no where left for me to turn.

The cooling breeze is chicken-fried
By over-heated rhetoric
And multi-colored stumbling blocks
Become the favored pastime
Of the masses who find comfort here.

I have no transport close at hand
And where I want to go is gone.
I’m all alone in emptiness
And no one hears my cries for help
In finding some way to survive.
                 ljm