It's late and I don't know why I am writing,
What demons am I fighting?
The mourning of a past,
Filled with "regrets and gratitude",
And a dance never asked,
Another drink to pass the time,
Another cigarette to fill an empty line,
Drummers that don't have anything to say,
And singers filled with too much nostalgia,
I can't shake it,
What else is there but another cart to gather,
Making sense like a shampoo that doesn't lather,
Try to be the former and less the latter,
No sense.