The saxophone is wailing and the piano nearby is tinkling.
I'm reading some poems by a very dim light.
The ashtrays are full. My beard itches.
This turtleneck is giving me pimples.
And, all the while, in the next room,
some demented bongo player is trying my patience.
I'll howl at the moon, but I still won't know the difference
between here and now.
I don't care. I'll carry on.
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