In Society one morning, inspiration waning,
Simply drawing on my last reserve,
My brain a fettered dumping ground,
My fingers did not seem to work,
My muse was stuck on butchers hooks,
Flailing for a reason to be, one again,
And be set free.
A cup of Joe was ushered forth,
Over sized, the cup was not,
Just right thought I, as through my nose,
My muse did stir, that fateful glow,
That solace that is sometimes lost,
Society had ushered forth,
The morning fog upon my mind,
Was gone, and in its place there stood,
Potential in the dawning day,
A shiny thing, to work and play,
And when the day is done and I,
Tumble bedbound, sleep arrives,
I think about Society,
The morning bliss, of you and me.
Adam Jones 