This Moorish existence triumph we are none

Barley able to cast off the dark shadows of the smoking gun

I awake much too late for idyll speech

The darkness hardens as my path turns to an unreachable steep

This mood, this strange unfriendly stranger

Follows me like a mounted ranger

My every step it has me in its sights

I cannot talk for fear of dark nights

I try to placate, but it has none of that

I turn my shape into a dog, but it finds me as a cat-

On tiny feet I sneak pass the peril

Holding my breath for it so easy for me to

 Come un-railed

Each day holds a new beginning

Some days have angels, and some have sinners            

I carry the cross for all my bad behaviors

Calling on my luck as an old friend for a favorite

Save me from the wrath of this tornado

For in the eye of the storm I generally stand

Waiting for the wind to blow away-and someone

To take

My hand-

For evermore I only wonder

For which I did, for which I blunder

Each day as the sun does rise I am shielding

My visage not knowing which tone I am fielding-

It comes at great expense, to my psyche

What may come in the delicate morning

O my pace is quicken and my mind slows down

Each day brings a new burden upon my crown