give your momma a kiss,

don't listen to the riot,

drift away into the abyss.

Dream of a forest, trees--

shade from the month, June.

Sit their quietly shcuking peas,

there's no need to prune.

Dream of a blue crystal,

hanging in the local bar.

A shoot-out and a pistol

A star with his guitar.

Close to waking you brooded,

with that the night concluded.

CALDER WOLFE