sing again pastoral songs of endless dusks of gold as keepsakes for my autumn’s end before the year grows cold to memories of summer’s lost and their ballads’ echoes die beyond the faint remembered phrase of an old man’s wistful sigh.
I heard Lord Bacchus try to sing discordant sad and long laments of eternal thirsts unquenched that to his blood red eyes did bring a tear for all those sorry souls who to his world of vineyard’s old gave all their dreams so cheaply spent in trade for those his kisses lent.
yet on the dire and sunken host such melancholic ayrs are lost as they pay gladly all that costs and to Lord Bacchus spend the most.
fair maiden of the elm tree love borne upon the bough each leaf that falls requited tears I must return somehow a thousand fold in joyous weepings a river forms thy name and within its eddies I shall drown not to emerge again.
my favourite shirt lies on the bed just like that Nicky Heyward said and no one pulled the blinds last night I laugh inside at who I became on Earle Street in the pouring rain as my shadows drank up the light
of just another Sunday morning let regrets play no mind just another tied on head push the button to rewind