Must I pretend
That I have no will
For such a rhyme to be penned?
What to do? Woe is me!
Shall I torment my thoughts longer,
Or shall I flee?
For what then,
Has life for me, set aside?
What for me, will life provide?
My passion is only found in dreams!
Such a place
To satisfy my means!
And it is by no means
That I should put away these dreams
For what more is life better served
Than dreams?

My dear brother, I should hope
This letter finds you well,
And has not aggravated
Our relationship further.

The dreadful winter
Is here again at last,
And the year is 2020.

Of course I realize
That you have been
Long since dead,

Tho I write this letter
In my own form
To communicate with you.

How I miss things in our own time.
The smell of barley,
Leaves me ill with longing for home.

I should have taken my place
Between you and our parents
Long ago.

Transportation is different
In this age and time.
There are no carriages in sight.

I'm concerned, brother
Of things in this world.
I live in a world full of masquerades.

Letters are a thing of the past,
And the accursed "internet"
Has overruled our old-fashioned ways.
(How I loathe Thomas Edison!)

In short, brother, I am ill.
Not of life,
But without any will to live longer.

We've since reached
Another century,
And yet have had anything to improve.

How many centuries
Must I suffer longer?
How must I part ways with life?

Godspeed, brother.
Until we should meet again.

O Maria,
Through the misted fog
Indeed I come.
Shrouded by the wretched smell
Of twenty shipmates
Lying, dying,
Beating, hating,
Praying it's not too late, Maria!
Tho the eyes of the world
Will not see thine beauty
And a thousand men
Cannot save thine soul
On the waves against the storming tide
Thou will watch as I return!

"Step right up
And give it a go!
Ladies and gentlemen
Prepare for a show!

With my elixir,
You'll see oh so fine!
Step right up!
Who will be first in line?


A man makes his way
To the front of the stage.
"I only have one question,
How is it made?"

The man shakes his head
And smiles with pride
"It's an old family secret,
I cannot tell you what contents
Are held inside!"

But it costs a shilling
And not a cent more;
This is a deal
You shouldn't throw out your door!"

"But What's the trick?
What is the catch?"

"To Prove you are quick!
And the others are no match!
But i will agree,
You'll want me to prove!
Watch and you'll see,
Your aiming improve!"

The pistol is fired,
The hat is thrown in the air!
No more enjoyment
Would one find there!

The pistols fired,
The lead hits the hat!
What more excitement
Would you feel rather than that!

"How is it done?
How can it be?"
Asks the mammoth crowd
Gathered as far as the eye can see.

Amongst them there,
In the crowd A man stood
None other than Mister Hardin
Who was up to no good.

"You're a fraud," said he.
"It is easy to tell!
You're quite the schemer,
And I'll send you to hell!"

The pistol is fired,
As death fills the air
Twas the last time
That Johnny  did not play fair.

Alas, the feeling has kept me ill
That mocking passion within me still.
For I know well, I am shorn of my pride
And no manner in life shall provide.

How I loathe the poets
In a time before!
And the use of language
Which exists no more!

Try-how I try!
To comprehend the subtle wording
And the use of literature today
From yesterday converting!

And even the pen! A simple pen!
Mocks me with its cruel indifference
And the blank page, which words appear
Though my mind, shows interference!

Critics all! And I am mine!
How I long to make a piece so fine!
Alas the feeling since has left me ill
That mocking passion within me stills!

Ah Torn is the sacred veil
Love is forevermore!
Ring the bells,
A lonely spirit dwells nevermore!

So late the hour, so sweet the tune
I find my solace neath the moon.
While the village sleeps, and all is sound
Such a place where love is found.

Our talks were civil
And our feelings glad.
Tho the white dwarf stars
Had left us sad.

At rest upon
The crescent brim
I lie and sing
My somber hymn.

And the moon
Who has heard my somber tune
Would permit my soul
All too soon.

Tho the moon's own light
Begins to fade,
I must depart and return
On another day.