Here's twenty-nine - it's just a matter of time.
While it's a shame,
you're to blame.
You'll leave a lot for the rest of us,
spent as a sign sent to a generation.
Luck's not a lady,
up's down on the ricochet,
but you leave all sense of yourself for the weekend.
History shows what you don't want to know.
May I alert you to work done
by science and circumstance?
The lift of your face,
like they see you from space …
remember: "lest you forget how the scales are set."
You're smart as an upstart
but stupid as a suicide.
Luck's not a lady,
up's down on the ricochet,
but you've lost all sense of your own regulation.
Worn flow's gone again.
That's it,
I don't know how to help you more.
You won't see dawn again.
I hear a lone violin weeping.
And it's your kind of Saturday - here's you in bed,
scared of sleeping.
Sad old man,
long-forgotten friend,
you're tiny in the end.
Weakness of the heart,
finished from the start.
