The winds and rains of yesterday
were fierce, were wild, and cold.
The sky was e'er so far away,
and Tom was shy and bold.
But now the breeze that sobs at night
has little left to say
and hard and gray's the morning light
that rips night's peace away.
In durance vile he'll nuke his food
and feed the scrawny cat.
The shows today are loud and crude,
the frozen grub tastes flat.
The lad will fill his mouth with mold
as tides roll in and out
he finds that-- all at once-- he's old;
bright faith burns down to doubt.
And when the call shall echo from
a shore so far away
There's little here to make old Tom
feel much inclined to stay.
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Author Notes
Yeah, my given name is Tom. Houseman said "the lad who dreams of heaven shall fill his mouth with mold."
Time to post something...
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