a young man demanded his priest for the truth
the old man replied with an all-knowing stare
and held underwater the head of the youth
saying, 'battle for truth like you battle for air'

i've tumbled whiskeys obedient-eyed
and held onto fruitless glass after glass
and every moment of boredom resigned
has been one of yearning for which i've not asked

an army of answers of certainty born
may shear in triumph the ill-fated ears
of listening quesions, but will soon transform
from answers and triumphs to armies of years

and if the white wings of the angel of death
make this very night with their presence ablaze
and bequeath unto me one final request
i'll say, 'take me from this miserable place'

the end.