Down in a Mexican town
With too many lovers
And not enough friends;
We discover our true destiny:
gypsy poets.
The constants are as ever;
The sun, the sea, the holy moon
The empty visions of us all
perpetually stoned writers
We are vampires of the mind
Cannibals of the soul
Thieves of faith
We play with hearts
As easily as playing with words
And feel no regret
At discarding one
And seducing another.
We light candles in ornate churches
And pray for our damned souls
But our painted lips give us away
For we worship nothing but words
And revel in our own faithlessness
Gypsy tramps.
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