"Quite Positively Maria"/ "The folly of it all"

                               (Quite Positively Maria)
                                 
                                 Midnight trees align your garden Maria, they're sparkling and silhouetted, glimmering in pale moonlight. Sundry afternoons outside the local ferris wheel, you in your Catholic schoolgirl uniform sucking up daisies in ultraviolet ambiance. Radiant on Wednesday afternoon in Summer smiles and languid motion. Your violet skirt and thick brown eyebrows. Moisture clings to linden branches that reside outside your bathroom window (left ajar). Let love rain down on us from the baptismal heavens. A canine spread out (on all 4's) sunbathing upon maroon carpeting . Pour me another Maria, the fire's hearth still glows..
                                  Passion floats in on wings of decadent fantasy, decorative decades of illustrious being. Laborious stenciled monuments and retractable residential cookie-cutters. Time to laugh beside shimmering fountains, to marvel beside ivory edifices. The frail quaint courtyard, left slumbering in silent sleep. Weeping willows wallow wondrously around the medieval epicenter, where sordid ancient birds do gather. It is the sly, cunning, vulturous jaded themes that underline "The folly of it all".

                               (The folly of it all)

                               Cut the old man some slack, he has grown tired and withered in cumbersome years of salvage and slavery. Faded and cancerous in fluctuating tideland arenas. Gray and scarred, treacherous candles burn then extinguish at supper time ceremonies. Maple wood and kindled oak boughs, the placid lake that surrounds the embedded twilight. Gnats circle endlessly around nestled park pavilions. Behold your elders, for they bring great provincial tidings in the year of the moth. Gratitude, and what of it? I shall walk these narrow halls in search of stale breadcrumbs and flat domesticated beer drops. Paper bags and plastic wafers. Make-up, do not make-down the village prostitutes, they know not who they're slaying. Men are unwise and foreboding in the year of the stem cell dragon.
                                Dismal and alienated,  towering trees triumph toward daybreak. Diluted in darkness, then masqueraded in celibate evening. Lend me the ears of your sponsored grandchildren. I will use them in ways unknown. I will sing them songs unsung. Learn them teachings unlearned. Bathe them in distilled waters unfilled. It is time now to bury the hatchet. Deep down through the soiled centuries of Camelot.