Somewhere far from town and country, in a place I don't quite know, there lives someone of nine lives.
Far from here, far from feeling, and close to being disturbing,
This someone lives and thrives and decides to know none of my lives.
Various lives I lived each day
With lies for company.
Several deaths they plied each night
With clockwork sympathy.
Blackened by the river
That ran from the apple of my eye,
And terrified by the fear
Of losing a horizon and rudder,
I had let the ship pass through waters thin.
I had let the oars scrape a beach pristine.
I wore a cloak of sin,
And trudged through ways serpentine.
Six summers read to me.
Six winters scolded me.
And six monsoons marooned me,
On The Isle of Deep Reverie.
But it's broad daylight now.
The Sun's in for tea.
And the seasoning's done with
The liver particularly.
Well, a letter I must write then,
And seal it with some port wine.
For someone ought to know
That somebody drew a line;
That the sin is dead and left in turpentine.
And Valentine never comes home to dine...
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