Walking down the night street--
Each breath of mine showing,
From the cold and cigar--
Straight but nowhere going.
The streets are dead empty,
As empty as my hands--
Save the cigar in one--
No money or demands.
My head is full, flying:
Thoughts, plans, fancies and dreams.
The things that fill late nights,
And hold tight my life's seams.
Because in the daytime
So heavy is my heart,
Though is it all empty,
That days are hard to start.
My lame reprise of Baudelaire's Be Drunk
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