In for the night.

Drive me not down to the old fair ground
for my mood is dark
I think on things not thought on much
since I’ve lost the art.

Since I was young the waiting world
has prophesied my doom
and we all know the stranger comes
when we are in our rooms.

So leave me here old friend of mine,
and dance and speak in tongues.
On your return I may yet be guarding
overflowing mugs.

But if I am not,
and I have gone
Don’t fear for me too long
For the waiting world,
and the stranger’s curled,
scythe has played my song.