Wandering aimlessly in what next land,
Stumbling noisily over pound signs,
Counting pocket's pocket money,
Wishing it were countless.
Trying not to think,
Dying for a drink,
Standing on the brink
Of sit down and wait land.
Feeling almost but not quite happy
Then knowing out of luck sad,
Wanting to sleep until it's all over,
Closing wide open eyes.
Running away,
Forgetting to pay,
Remembering to say
"I'm sorry, it'll be all right soon."
Impatiently rushing at the sun,
Desperately clucthing at clouds,
Touching them slip through my fingers,
Falling down once again.
Tomorrow I know I must win.
20 January 1972
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