The Don

From the cup

Of self-importance,

I sipped a brew

Of lasting fools


From a river

Of worthless flow

I gained so little

I grew so old


From a sky

Of wild blue lies

I held so true

Only to fall,

And crash,

Like some old fool


And yet within

My quixotic dreams

I’ve slain more wind

Than ever seen


And there I live

With little more

And hope

This- is- real for sure


For all I have left

are my right dreams

Quixotic they are, ever-more, ever-seen

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