Sedated, the mundane days bleed into the weekends
Satire keeps the regulars around, until the clock tick tock’s around
Twelve, the shell of a night, where was I going? No where
Dry pages beneath cracking finger tips, shift from lazy to a stampede
Moon light was the adrenaline for the imagination to wisp awake
Owls, stars, bats, and bars; the night life was as offbeat as I
Fly Marty, aint nothing left but to try, but remember, eighty-eight!
O’look at the time, I’m late again; my friend, forgive me, I must be gone