When the light winds blow the tall grasses begin their listening; Each blade attuned to the wind’s fervent whispering; Passing on stories of the psychic faults of humankind; And the grass blades dance gracefully to and fro;  Choreographed for a curious audience to see.  

Our money’s often wasted, so is our time Not a crime for this is life And my wife agrees with me We can see in our old age That our rage has more personal roots Our Docmarten boots are but enough Life is rough and our die is mysteriously cast How we last, how we found our neighbourhood Because we could, accorded by the rules We aren’t fools my wife and I We will die at peace, possessed with knowing A reasonable glowing from our heart’s essence Because of our presence.    

Returned to normality this lotto conscript, Fighter like an enemy against the Cong Hookah dreams now becalm this cast-off At twenty-three he enters into suburban bliss His mind modern lithium for the wild man, Subdued enough for him to hug his surface And enter domestic rules and other similes.   A crazed canyon is dividing his synapsed soul Cong dreams thrash him about his wet bed His head rages full of schizophrenic talk Of a spirit's killing, the loudest being his own Was he so manly to escape the Vietnam bog? Sent into sadness for other things done wrong Now doing them mercilessly in his gorgon head And thrashing about in his single bed.   Alone, without a wife who'd lost him hence To his jungle demons and mental gyrations,   Guns blazing inside his head's twisted head Two skulls close enough to cause friction As memory and counter memory do battle Over what he had done or wasn't accused of Over not remembering the mas...