Mr. lark

A man wakes up outside a store
rubbing his eyes, looking for more
almost seven thirtytwo
He’ll be gone before he meets you
usually, you’ll beat him with a broom
You’d also avoid that, I prosom
He leaves nothing but scratches
from black charcoal matches
and carves from a knife
the initials of his former wife

The man goes to the park
sings with the voice of a lark
songs from a brighter day
when fortune traveled his way
When day’s over he’ll be back
tucked in a rug, during moonlight
next morning you’ll wake him up
Screaming; I want this to stop
and then he’ll be gone forever
Well, never say never


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