The Ancient Owl

The groover

The windy mover

Sips the jungle juice

Gyrates to psychedelic rhythms

As the ancient owl

Ponders the preposterousness

Of pilfered pepper

In the jail kitchens

The light seeps in

The winners grin

And the losers sin

As the big black clock of time

Beats a steady rhythm

Of hours lost

Grinding through the mists of time

To find a new path

One that doesn’t read so grim

Weak become heroes

Losers have a win

And we all regret

And wonder what could have been

If only we knew better

Than to dance out of time

With the harmony of all things

Beg forgiveness

And be the story

That read less like pulp

And more like poetry

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