Hanging With The Wrong Crowd
hard.
And on the master raced: behind the hunters chased to where the path was
barred.
One fine young lady's horse refused the fence to clear.
I unlocked the gate but she did wait until the pack had disappeared.
Crop-handle carved in bone; sat high upon a throne of finest English
leather.
The Queen of all the Pack: this joker raised his hat and talked about the
weather.
All should be warned about this high-born Hunting Girl.
She took this simple man's downfall in hand; I raised the
Act Two
I stretch my hands,
clutch vacant laughter
in silence and sweet, sweet pain;
without demand,
but with a longing
for what will never come again.
I smell your perfume
on the sheets in the morning--
it linger like the patterns
on the window after rain,
a past that lives,
if only for th epresent...
which is gone and will never come again.
to your sad eyes,
turned away, mine say
'Do you? Did you? How?'
As the darkness
slides away the day
shows what was
and makes what is now.
I see your picture
as though it were a mirror
but there's no part of you
outside the frame
except the change that you game to me:
this will never come again.
I am me,
I was so before you,
but afterwards I am not the same.
You are gone
and I am with you:
this will never come again.
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