As the evening draws nigh and one wonders why
That, the joy of the game is the winning;
Do we really know! is it really so!
That the end of the day is the beginning ?
For, the dark is the time, even though it's a crime,
A transgression devoid of one's choosing
And, between me and you we see that it's true
The real joy of the game is the losing.
Yet, when we grow older our essays grow colder
As the cease of the day slowly nears
And, as sure as the sun, the win can't be won
So, the joy of the game disappears.
Now the sunlight has fled and we take to our bed
And enhance our muse with deceit
And the lapse of our sleep lets the past overleap
And we bathe in oblivion sweet'