People riding in buses at night whilst the ghost that is my soul and the cobwebs in my mind,
Ravage and ruin my lope.
The sweet evening humidity,the everyday wind down adjacent to those happy commuters returning home,
I observe much of this.

Where is there a place for pride if not with a jewel of a girl?
My memory doth serve me in understanding how fair it is to know love.
How is it that I am a comedian when all of my endeavour is to be serious.
In all my days I am besieged by relationships which only serve to smother me and I am forever juggling satisfaction of needs when my worth is constantly under attack.
I am the man o' war who runs aground on a savage coast.
I am the buccaneer tied to the mast.
I am loaping up the street seeing if I can diffuse the bomb that it is my head.

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