this season by the tired Sun,
who smiles on party mammals
warming up, merry indeed.
But the gold plated evenings
are not for me, never any more!
I was dragged out of this feast
a fine day, when my uncles
were not watching my back;
for I had a beard, and gloves
to fight, but I never could
punch the thug down and
now I sit in pain as
evenings turn to night and boys,
they laugh for they have
a new morn coming.
Alas, I have only tales of loss,
of those numbered pics in paradise!
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