III. Conversatio
He should have been he who wrote this,
I of him it was written,
for I am always past my prime
and he is always gone too soon,
he the poet dead,
And I?
I take the road all travel by
until they've served their time,
a tab is opened at birth,
a tap in the wine cask,
and it pours out
day after day
it pours
and when it's through, it's through.
Not fate, no not fate,
we cannot know the time, the way, the day
but when there's no more, there's no more,
Wine runs dry.
II. The Meal
(when you're out, you're out boys, aren't no seconds tonight)
III. Conversatio
Nevermore.
I hear
in Ernest
as I stand before the coffin
of the little shepherd poet: