By this time tomorrow I’ll have found my way to yesterday Just as today was yesterday’s tomorrow Seems a waste, doesn’t it Seven ages To come full circle Brings to mind an image Of a small grain mill In the village square With an ass lashed to it Head down Making dust

If I have them tarted up Lathered, rinsed, scrubbed, peeled, creamed, tenderized Smelling of tangerines and youthful exuberance The air of disaffected petulance and slum appeal perfected Working the seedier corners of your mind Like carnival barkers versed in product placement Will you pay attention then? Will my words have meaning then? Or will they all go missing By morning?