Symphony No. 25 G minor–Mozart
A hurried panic stricken pace,
Of useless thoughts and misunderstandings.
Dreams of train rides and spotless minds.
I get what I must,
And take what I can.
So pour me another poor man stout,
Listen to the tales I forgot,
And I will pay in due time and clout.
I could tell a great story,
It lies in my past.
I like the dream when You’re singing.
Stage lights, racing hearts, and lips close and together clinging.
It belongs to me late at night,
A light in the attic of remembrance and sidewalks ending.
I’m buried in thoughts of love, despair, and lost poetic MAD magazines.
Where do the words come from and where they go astray mean little to me today. I will tell of stories that become symphonies.
Just keep that stout chilled, and to my tale maybe you shall sing still.
The longest songs,
Much like bending knee apologies,
Have a crescendo.
I met you under false pretense,
Here are the words I exclaim.
My poetry and tale are dreams of me.
There is no real forgiveness, just perfect dis organization and grime.
I offer tales simply of forgetful days
And long beer soaked Symphonies