The last night’s possessions
Are never lost and done.
There are drunk poets
By dozens and one,
Who’d happily drink from her brimming cup!
“One man up is another down”,
“Hurrah! Hurrah!”, they cried such,
“One man king is next one clown”,
“It never did account for much!”.
Such lyrics whiny, like roaches tiny,
Scurried away from the poets’ beers;
Still others left, to smell the clefts,
Of someone’s memories from yesteryears.
The poets fled to distant woods;
Perched on trees they are still heard
Succumbing to their common dream,
Where everyone is a bird.