Lost on the way to paradise
Too many leaves of grass
Making everything seem funny
Like a divine comedy.
I saw rats follow the Pied Piper,
And some of Possum’s cats,
As I wandered lonely as a cloud,
Somewhat haughty, somewhat proud.
It was growing dark when
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said: ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’
‘I thought you might want a hero,’ I replied, ‘An uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one.’
But the traveller heeded me not,
Proceeded limping, talking rot:
‘If you can keep your head when all about you…’
‘Silence, sir!’ I cried, ‘Cease gibbering, you fool.
Where in hell have you come from?’
Dark Satanic Mills, thought I, as then,
Tight-lipped, the stranger made no reply.
As I passed by
‘Them good old boys drinking whiskey and rye,
Singing this’ll be the day that I die…’
Quickly on my way,
To myself, I did say: That’ll Be The Day.’
But knew it was a lie.
Midway this way of life we’re bound upon,
I woke to find myself in a dark wood.
Free association styled prose from Julian Cloran, visual artist, writer, poet and agent provocateur. Random musings, which are sometimes cynical, but always intended for amusement, stimulation and entertainment. Comments are welcomed so don't be shy. Simply click on 'comments' to post yours.
