I sit here under the yellow lamp,
wondering if I am Love's proverbial tramp.
Walking barefoot from cities to troughs,
through scorching passions and wintry roughs.
Crossed stars and tarot cards,
I sleep under, like those jobless bards.
but in my satchel I carry still,
A sneezing virtue, a leaking quill...
I sit here under the yellow lamp,
wondering why i carry this damning stamp.
Walking around in a forgotten daze,
weak from the ashes of blitz and blaze.
Foggy eyes and a swollen lip,
on the radar of love, but a fading blip.
But in my satchel, i carry still,
a breaking vow, a window-sill
I sit here under the yellow lamp,
wondering why my cheeks aren't damp.
Walking alone, for but a while so short,
running after trains I never could have caught.
Tattered books and unwritten lines,
a thirst unquenched, in a temple of wines.
But in my satchel, I carry still,
a begged hope, a glass mid-spill...
The lamp is gone, the light went out,
wondering what now to wonder about.
Walking along the crumbling roads,
as the frog by the side splutters and goads.
Mermaid hair and a dancing cramp,
what could I be, but Love's proverbial tramp.
But in my satchel, I carry still,
a tomorrow past, a fickle will...
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