Always Watching
"What do you do when you want to do something crazy"
I do
--
Colorful words sing in our ears, capitalizing on collective vulnerability, jiggling toes. The bois play their trumpet, sexing in our ears, giving us the little willies. Uncorked wine and fizzing beer on the bereted bois, the berating trumpets unsuspecting in their compliance. Shaking to the music and shaking to the cold, dirty socks lining the floor.
Before distraction sets in the foamy head pours over everyone, a messy carpet. Attention wanes away, and the uncorked wine does a little jig.
Jigs and jokes keep us on our jiggling toes, ah but the music is new. The music becomes louder and with less disturbance. Holding us, balancing the drinks, in a rhythmic staccato, choosing the dance and direction. And we raise our hands in victory, and pull on our victory pipes, creating clouds casting certainty over our copacetic kingdom.
And sipping down beer we all know the victory will be short-lived, lasting only until the dawning sun, perhaps not even. Ah, the staccato returns, with it an orderly pragmatic vision. Clearing thoughts, heart beating along, and the couples return to the floor for one more twirl, as the reporters scurry to the phones in the corner to call their editors.
"The French have taken over! The War is over!
The trumpeting bois whirl once more, and the music fades away over the water, a nostalgic reminiscing floating fleetingly through the breezy air.
I do
--
Colorful words sing in our ears, capitalizing on collective vulnerability, jiggling toes. The bois play their trumpet, sexing in our ears, giving us the little willies. Uncorked wine and fizzing beer on the bereted bois, the berating trumpets unsuspecting in their compliance. Shaking to the music and shaking to the cold, dirty socks lining the floor.
Before distraction sets in the foamy head pours over everyone, a messy carpet. Attention wanes away, and the uncorked wine does a little jig.
Jigs and jokes keep us on our jiggling toes, ah but the music is new. The music becomes louder and with less disturbance. Holding us, balancing the drinks, in a rhythmic staccato, choosing the dance and direction. And we raise our hands in victory, and pull on our victory pipes, creating clouds casting certainty over our copacetic kingdom.
And sipping down beer we all know the victory will be short-lived, lasting only until the dawning sun, perhaps not even. Ah, the staccato returns, with it an orderly pragmatic vision. Clearing thoughts, heart beating along, and the couples return to the floor for one more twirl, as the reporters scurry to the phones in the corner to call their editors.
"The French have taken over! The War is over!
The trumpeting bois whirl once more, and the music fades away over the water, a nostalgic reminiscing floating fleetingly through the breezy air.
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