I could un-live in unison
With all those dwelling down holes.
Lost within the rhythm of the swamp
Unwilling to swallow the poison
Offered by the medicine man.
Staying trapped inside the wheel,
The eighteen ’til seventy-five comfort
Of a paycheck and a pain deep in the gut,
And the bitter acceptance that the boss
Really does get paid to know less than me.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
One of these mornings
You’re going to rise up singing
Then you’ll spread your wings
And take to the sky
Summertime, Porgy & Bess