tom spiked the punch

                          who can untie a woven fabric from it's stitching star

                          or relish in thought of cony dogs on kraut bumper cars

                          the answer swims within the songs of racing tidepools

                          where they churn and crust along a salty shore of dust

                         abandoned from a stone dry desert suffering home

                         the verses collect cacoons of past rolling thunder moons

                         ripping through an electric sidesadle cooling the brew

                         like bullets from an old colt shot in spanish revolt 

                         I heard the song of innocence from within this odd dream

                         the bats are in the belfry as the dew is in the moor

                        and arms would leave him that once held her pledge

                        the song reflecting a captured chance at a wallflower dance

                        all perched and lonely against the old dance hall dooms

                        so he spikes the punch grapples his lunch and hits the circuit

                        strolling into a crunch from the gravel under cowboy boots

                       comfort could never seem so unbelievably cruel