A tired man on a bench once said
all that once was good in life lies dead,
dead as sun in the setting glass
cold as the dew on the morning grass.
And the bottle in the bottle, of the bottle of the man
whispered to him and held his hand.
I need some sleep the man then said
with a heavy sigh and a shake of the head.
Dead as the weight, the weight in his eye
the look of the cursed before they die.
And the voice of the voice, in the voice of the man
spoke to the bottle of the bottle in his hand.
And the birds about took up their flight
flying from here and out of sight.
Leaving the man with the night and the known
and then I got up, and left him alone.
Goodbye waved the hand of the hand of the man
to the shadow of a dream that had got up and ran.
Many a time, a time or two,
I've stopped on a bench to tie my shoe.
And the birds all around have up and flown
to all the places that they call home.
And the soul of the soul, in the soul of this man
has reached for the stars with a faltering hand.