so tired that the keyboard keys look
like concave pillows
and as much as i ask, no one knows
where the perverted thoughts go
when the sparkle of drunk sunshine
breaks the frosted chills of time
alone on a moist carpet
why is it moist? and why am i in it?
there must have been an altercation
or a drunk flirt stumbling over a heart of gold
so tired that i can only be bold
and tell the gentle crowd to beat it