What we do

and so we sit here,
drink vodka in tall glasses,
smoking herbs in broad daylight,
a fear of no law or justice,
for tommorow we don't worry,
a day that never comes,
to young me of dead dreams,
an eulogy long read,
and our heads dance high,
corrupted with methane and smoke,
laughing out loud,
to the joys of a moment,
to the airee of a minute,
and in the wakeness of the morning,
everything be dead and gone,
the real world hitting our faces,
of concious minds we be,
and sorrow then crawls in,
pity and fear of a real day,
everything cycling,
a spin that never seizes,
like a lone cowboy,
lost in the wild west,
everything coming to need,
and the break of day,
brings all to the righteous way