Lying on the sand,
Listening to some old bands,
Staring at the black graveyard,
Feeling so charred,
Will I drink myself to sleep like Poe?
Will I let the bullet pass my head like Gogh?
Talking to the moon,
Asking her to grant me a boon,
“Let me not go crazy; let me find my baby.”
Then I heard a voice call me from behind.
A sweet, glorious voice with a ring on her nose,
Standing in soft, simple clothes,
The moon in the graveyard had risen.
I knew I had to listen,
To the words that came out of her mouth,
I knew she’d be my spouse.
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