Sitting all along at home in the rocking chair;
pushing through the memory the things that weren’t so fair,
hard to be assembled,
hard to be remembered,
tonight.
Just from time to time assuaging the inner burning ashes
with a swig of vodka traced by the skinny rashes,
wrong to be an action,
wrong to be reflection,
of the mind.
Just tonight reflecting on the past
that’s been affecting
in black and white.
Looking at the photos shot chronically gathered,
as a proverb says “old birds always flock together”,
maybe poorly damaged fast,
maybe not ‘ve been kept as must,
at sight.
What he’s been working for, seems to be not real-
where’ve gone the friends and more that kept the life to feel,
hard to be assembled,
hard to be remembered,
tonight.
Don’t linger on to fret him
for his past-time sins.
He’s not here,
he's almost gone
when he sings.
1990