a girl in a red skirt twirls and whirls a red scarf tied tight around her neck a black musician paints his pain in notes which cannot be exchanged for any other goods not one thing will be remembered come their morning light each one a thing of the moment each won a thing of this night in the morning there will be some thing to the rescued something for which to care to carry each one through the day until the night confirms the oblivion they seek sweet, sweet oblivion where no dreams are allowed a place to sing to drown in silted waters tracked by the roots of others just seeking to survive before friendly fire robs your breath away with its stinging kiss back to the exotic riddled rhythm and seductive rhyme beneath a narcotic moon to danse sweet lies in unworldly time courted by the tune as the red skirt whirls a red scarf tied tight around your neck
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