THIS is not a requiem I make for them
where they lie under a stone or by a tree.
I make this to remember how I saw them
when, gabbing and hobnobbing, we
walked up and down a dirty world that looked
a little brighter through a glass of beer,
or, half seas over, stared up at the crooked
stars that are still just as crooked here.

But since there is nowhere for them to go to
outside that dirty world or further than
the faking zodiac with only moonshine to show to
the fugitive gulled ghost, then where can
they go save home here to the one
place where they know that, come what may,
here and hereafter they will not be alone
but hang around for ever and a day.

It does not matter who they are, the lazy
...