hundred per cent chance of 1AM storm

the measurer of violet night is back on the scene

the trimmer of slack black evenings him alighted alight alright

with the tinkling faery bells knelling around airy havens

down the coast amidst luxurious pines he dines for six thousand a week

oh his lovely little bunnies do it for the monies and the fun

oh his sweet sweet tooth sucking on all that complete youth

in by jiminy shadow the last mad poet of the fall

the storm talks in its faltering thunder blowing clouds asunder

black cars in the rain contain tequila and dealer of cocaine

in a dense library though he knows the answer weird and plain

the chef hired for his brain delicatessen and to lessen hunger

among the shells he tells apart the sound of the sea

and the sound of thee

he spills no blood unleashing instead a feast of tears

the stars are white and bright set into the dessert of the night

guests and pests arrive to partake of this and the strange angel fruit cake

beneath the vaulted firmament a trellis of elysian grapes

between the banquets clamour and the silence on the stage

as age after age succumbs to a dumb urge to emerge from the page

surrender rendered in red wine gone to the head

dystopian glamour i was hoping they’d hammer me down

in walks little judy with her rude mannikin acting the clown

they must have busted the budget trust her to nudge it

the lighting and lightning heightening the slight dizzy crush

a rush of cautionary proportions

but

is he even aware of us..?