with the minutes ticking on each moment now;
for one last song, another shag perhaps,
how long could the melancholics last?
knowing women, wine and the worst of man.
if a memory is enough to hold on to
where each one lives to his own morrow,
somethings of days that walked past,
or someone to speak of perhaps,
sometimes it seems so right to man.
like death she walks past, lays him to forget,
or be it the lord's debt to the heart of heavy;
would I be enough to pale and despair
for there can be no moment as a time like this.