To an Aesthete Dying Young

From a run-down house
On Douglas Street
I can hear the train whistle
Long and loud
And the metal smell
From the casting plant
Drifts in on the wind
A poison cloud
As the moon scores a field goal
Through the steeples of the cathedral
I lie in bed but I can’t sleep
So I am writing you this letter
I hope it will find you better
Than when we last spoke
‘Cause the East Coast does not seem to suit you, my friend
Those professors will only pollute your brain
So stick to your room, stay out of the rain
And practice your piano
Or frail or your banjo
It’s alright to spend a little time at your local
Your worries won’t kill you
Thought it sounds like you hope so
Yours truly
As always
Your friend
I’ll sing it again
You should practice your piano
Or frail or your banjo
It’s alright to spend a little tiem at your local
Your worries won’t kill you
Thought it sounds like you hope so
Yours truly
As always
Your friend