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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