Is it right that I should feel so wrong,
a stranger to this world,
tell me, where do I belong?
Nothing to hold onto,
no place left to go,
brokenhearts and poison darts
are the only way I know.
I have no dream for tomorrow,
no bitterness, no sorrow,
I'm just an empty shell of a man,
long since faded away.
Through dusty windows I watch children play
the timeless game called YOUTH.
In thier eyes shines bright the light of truth,
but it is still dark as midnight in my room.
Though midnight or no it is time ti resume
the infinite cycle of chores.
Wash the dihes, sweep the floors
and don't forget to cary the trash.
Now it's time to find my pipe
and smoke a little hash
before I do it all over again.
Thus are the wages of sin.
REPETITION! IMPOSITION!
Spread eagle is the position
in which everybody is being screwed.
This one got wealthy when that one got sued.
All in all it's rather pointless, don't you think?

I knew a fool who had a friend
in whom he thought he could depend
until said friend showed up in the courtroom
as the prosecutions fink.
Then all of the kings men and horses joined forces
to plea bargain this jester down to twentyfive years.
At fivetwenty they met up with the queen
at the local pub for beers.
It was really quite the scene,
at least that's what one hears.
You see, the bartender there was a buddy of mine.
He filled me in on all the details one night
while he was full of cheap wine.
It seems that the queen got a bit drunk
and laid down with a redheaded squire.
Now our blonde, blue eyed king and queen
have a daughter with hair red as fire.
The best part of the joke, what really made me laugh,
was when the princess begged for a pony
and the king bought her a girraffe.
Nobody got any birthday cake that afternoon
and the lead singer of the band
overdosed midtune.
Somehow, all this shit relates back to me.
The children playing, the queen laying,
even the O.D.
So what? Who cares?
Apples, oranges or prickly pears?
I still don't fit in,
nor do I know where to begin.
Although lovers and friends, I do KNow where it ends.
As sure as Summer and Winter in Autumn colide,
I'll see all of you silly souls on the other side.
Oh, by the way, thanks for the ride.
It's been a trip.

a poem by Donald Wilfong