In morning time

I write a rhyme

Before the riot

Of the coming day

Takes my muse away.

 

I am clay

And hot lust.

But ere I am dust

I have words to say.

 

Perhaps a brief rhyme of mine

Of women and wine

And fleeting time may live on

When I am gone.

 

We all go from the gloom

Of the womb

To the gloom of the tomb.

But take delight

In sunlight, ere we go.