Irwin Mercer

The man had told me to wait in line.
I smiled and replied, that would be fine.
So off did I lumber,
and took a number,
One thousand, five hundred and forty-two.
I waited so patiently for an hour or two
when the man called out one hundred and two.
To get through the line, I do desire,
before old age, I do expire.

I sat alone at night and stared

at the face, of which I dared

to ask the question of how and why

but once again, the same reply

the answer you see is always the same,

always the same, which makes insane

the insane you see you is not the same

the same insane you may not name

the answer he utters can make you quite mad

and if you are mad, it makes him quite glad

with insult to injury, continues to mock

with an ever so constant, tick tock, tick tock!

The little town was the perfect little town,
Where never would you see even one little frown.
No matter where you'd go around town to stroll,
There were perfect little houses, all in a perfect row.

It was the perfect town, till you crossed the tracks,
Where there were rows and rows of dirty little shacks.
The people who lived there lived just outside,
Just outside of the perfect little town.

The crunching snow beneath my feet
Breaks the silence of the winter eve.
I hear the patter of beginning sleep
On my evening stroll, as others sleep.

In the moonlight, the fresh snow glistens.
A snowy owl stops and listens.
A scampering mouse becomes his meal
As I head for home, off in the distance.

Where do you go when the cold wind blows,
and you're lost in the woods at night?
The snowflakes fall and a lone wolf howls,
and your soul's consumed by fright.

You drop to your knees and beg God please,
deliver me to a place of peace.
Though the wind still blows and the wolf still howls,
your soul is at peace in those perilous hours.