Keep on reveling in reverie
‘til you can't recall
where its boundaries are, darling.
You keep on floating around in fantasies
‘til the day is through
and I’m afraid it ain’t good for you darling.
‘Cause all that wishing
for the riches you daily envision—
it won’t do a thing on its own
to fill those hands you’ve
cupped and outstretched like your old man’s religion.
It won’t bring your wishes to fruition.
Keep on rifling through rivalries
with the best of men
as if that makes you one of them, darling.
And as for fuckin’ around in fantasies
‘till the day is through,
I should say the same for you, darling.
To fly the good flight
is a pipe dream you’ve sorely mistaken for foresight and
you’ve been returned to the ground
to craft and cradle
an ambition to filter a fact from a fable—
a skill you take pills to enable.
And all this wishing
for the day you betray your depraved dispositions—
it won’t do a goddamn thing on its own
to silence the sirens
and nurture some less hedonistic volitions.
It won’t bring your wishes to fruition.
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