And a cold angst it was
Twist, turn, stop go, swerve;
the road goes straight on
to the horizon that runs away;
to the horizon that runs away.
16 and the gallows tunnel vision
sees that it sees no future. No
escape from the loneliness
from birth to death, unless,
nearer to death’s door I pause
to shout back, hand in hand with you,
stop! Permit the blood of youth
settle back to earth. Think man,
where in the great game does it deny
that never the twain shall meet?
Turn from chasing the horizon, stop,
and settle in the prairie fields
and raise a gingham crop.