What will you do when the day's nearly done
when the moon reaches out to touch the sun
will you stand and look around
will you stay your ground
what will you do when the day's nearly done?

We found them,
lots of them,
boiling
in the midday sun.
Bleached skulls
grinning,
some toothless,
some children,
most with a single bullet hole
in the middle
of their foreheads.
Some had them holes
in the back
of their cracked craniums.
We knew it wasn't the Mafia,
for this wasn't
their area of operations.

So now my Darling Angel,
I will write of joy.
No more bloodlust,
no more
spilled guts,
no more
broken hearts
& anquish.
I will write of calm seas
& the moonbeams
reflecting off
your haunting
dark eyes.
The very thought of you
brings me
into submission,
into the spilling
forth
of these
love-seed words.
And I hope,
I do so fervently hope,
I impregnate you
with my happiness.

To get along real fine
we dance in
triple time,
a long slow stately waltz
with no time to find the faults
just the waltz and I and
she being nearer,
dearer
than ever to me.

The corruption of time where the girls of New York sell for a dozen a dime and a dollar gets the collar around the pretty ones, on each quarter a stain and Lincoln avenue pain and the time's never right for the move.

And the needle gets stuck on the 78s, **** can anything else go wrong, the corruption of time erupts on your face and the picture you have somewhere back at your place starts to melt.

Ever felt it wasn't your day
when the birds don't sing
and yet money flies away?

For a sawbuck, I'd ******* right now
I'd get out of your hair
disappear in Times Square to
reappear down in Harlem
with a hard-on for taco's
for a sawbuck, I'd do that
for a dollar or a dime you
go through that, but
the diner stays open all night.