Appears on a whim
Promised myself as a kid
Do what the soul wanted
Not what the lowell did
Fore the hourglass fills to the rim
Live it up before it descends
Twenty seven is well on the bend
For heaven or hell, wherever and when
I didn't come here to begin, alas
To get lost in a wash of Shakespearean sin
I can't!
Settle down on a cloud too content
I won't be!
Wound by the bowels of judgement
Fore the last of my past reinvents
Itself
Fore the demons retreat or repent
I will
Live for the lust you resent
Until
The thought of a shot to the head may contend
Still
By my own hand, how it lacks what it lends
Instead of death, I promise myself
Again
Fore it all ends…
Take my withered old soul back down to New Orleans