Tonight there’s a cold spirit calling from the canopy

You could call it a graveyard wind,

The way the rattling tousle will test my patience past tonight

Tired doors moan tomorrow, fer god sake

Let’s hope for better weather after sleep,

While Eastern hours wain, I slip the day wide awake

At odds again with the demon of incursion,

As he kisses my cursed lips, they take my name from the registrar

He points a slippy finger in my direction,

Then begins to pen his confession

More power to you, dark deathwish

Don’t you get the bony loneliness?

Sinking into the hot tub and closing your eyes,

That’s the curse of recursion

I say, write your lost book already!

All day long returning to the same words,

Some people just need a new way to put it,

Not their father’s depressive output

​

I sense the classics aren’t enough

You can write all day long and unless you make new words,

You’re just preparing an etching

That is just to say, after all,

Well I ate no plums, and I ain’t no leyline pilgrim

But in my respectful opinion,

make your changes and send them to the fucking editor!