On the first day of Jan. First of twoohoneseven
The year stretches out, yawns, and shivers
Hung over. We all are. Fat on bread of heaven
And all of our comrades are with us,
Some are on tour; some in the studio;
Some scribbling frantically.
Strings stretch between us, wherever we go:
There’s only so much land and sea.
But then, something ruptures. A crack in the sky.
Foul lightning that burns at our souls.
A cackling, harridan hater of life
Cutting at that rare rope – and one falls.
On the first day of Jan. First of twooohoneeight
The comrades still here hope that love tramples hate.