Last of a Dying Breed

(for M.T.) Some days you wake up You look in the mirror You’re afraid of the fire Afraid of the furor Your heart skips gaily Over each error Like the bumps that curb your speed You’re waiting for Friday Waiting for June That plan ‘round the corner That golden moon Cracks in the leather and grease on your spoon – You’re the last of a dying breed I used to know what To say to my friends Dusting off jokes Or making amends What do we care which language offends? The garden should welcome its weeds But they’re retiring jerseys And burning books TV won’t age you If you hold on to your looks You’re a man called Horse Swinging from their hooks Yes, the last of a dying breed Isn’t it strange? We were here just a short while ago The petals of sweet innocence Immune to the wind Isn’t it strange? You forget everything that you know And the altar of experience Demands a list of your sins Time’s a tilted table Time’s a thrown fight Time would have you go gentle Off into the night But time don’t bear in mind Your deep appetite And the force on which you feed In the Army of Stagnancy, It’s “don’t ask, don’t tell” Just think of those ladies at the poisoned well And greet the humid weather And bid fond farewell To the last of a dying breed.