My expectations were music from dusk to dawn. I rose so early, a pearl necklace and creme lace. I went up to the heavens and spoke to the sun. Let me tell you about her. Her luscious hair burns fiery at dawn just before she's awake with a blue slip. I whispered into her ear and she softly snored. I told her my utmost desire for the day. When she burned in awakening she walked straight to her mail desk and flung those old tattered ones. You see, that's how she gets it. So, I'm holding my keyboard, but I'm not playing anything at the moment. I had a lot to deal for that day; the good, the bad and the ugly face of honesty. My feet hurt, walking through the pavements. I got a cut, but it's okay. I'm seeing her the next day, demanding to know. Did she read my mail? I'll nudge her awake and speak to her all day. We'll drink tea of liquid gold from the leprechaun's pot of gold. That's got more than gold too.
It's a new day. I wore my peach for you. My expectations are high. I'm a spec in the middle of nothing. I am waiting for you. I am singing for you. I am praying... for you to come. I know you will like you have always done. It's day 365, when we first saw. It's day 365, when we last saw. It's an eternity, like it never occurred. It was like a dream, but it's different. I wore my peach for you.
I put a lot of effort into nearly everything; and there are those days I just don't want to give anything. It is important to do what I have to do in the early mornings dew, and when the sun sets I stew over it all in delighted glee, saying: I did the best I could and have achieved— angling between Chablis and tea.
When I went to school, they told me tales of buried treasure, resting beneath the Earth and buried at the bottom of the sea. I was told of treasures that would make men swoon, and cause wars. I know only of two sorts of treasures: gold, silver, and jewels, And dust, spiders, and rotting leather.
Men dwell on the past, duel with the present and dream of the future, If only they'd trust not the stars but the pockets of black between; For the earth cries out for blood and for peace, none of which are ever pure.
The cosmos bears a heavy burden, yet it's but dust upon a body for the one above all, Knowledge has its days, but power is a friendly foe to the wise; Seek the truth with utmost desire, knowing that one will die at its feet, quivering.
Best you be prepared for when the winter comes, Metals, no matter how loved, are subjects to rust; The sun shines bright and lights the path, but soon it will be the dark night's turn.
I know of two forms of treasures: One by which the men of days gone and days present live by, treasures called women, riches and pleasures