Overture

On dewy grass I tossed and turned,

Ripped some, tore some, let some burn,

Blew some rings of pale moonlight

In inky darkness of the night.

Above me loomed a pockmarked sky

With buxom clouds whose heaves and sighs

Pierced me with a longing crisp

To write of then and days gone by.

I wrote with flaming heart and quill

Till th' silent breath of night stood still,

But alas, the ink too mocked my plight

And left my thoughts, to join the night.