Walking down the street,
I see it seeping through the cracks
Poking through his satin coat,
And falling from his slacks
Eyes distant, his rounded pearls,
Sewn with shimmer and grime
There he steps out from the rain,
Droplets pricking down his spine
His skin of beaten leather,
Shivering from the rush
Ask him of the Morning Glory,
I fear it would be too much
The seeds will feed his hunger,
That which he can not break
Oh, sickly like a wilting flower,
I fear it’s much too late
Walking down the street again,
Though the bitter winter pass
Petals scattered about the ground,
His glory didn’t last