The day is,
of its indecisive ways,
no matter how much I plan,
and not enough is accomplished,
but the day it does not give a damn,
and the night it is a delight,
but the day it wearies me,
and it rubs me up the wrong way,
and does far too frequently not go to plan,
and how it pains me so,
and how it eats at the soul,
and how quickly time does go,
yes, how quickly time flies when the day is your master,
and others timetables,
they drag you down so,
they drag you down so,
oh, to be alone, and oh, for the day to do as it is told,
yes, I pray for it to be so,
but the day it does not want to play,
and despite longful wishes there is far too often regret,
and the day it far too quickly runs away,
with nothing achieved,
but the night, what a delight,
in the quiet, and the calm, and the respite,
and, oh, how great it would be,
for life to be as such as the night,
the night that envelopes you like a welcoming blanket,
and that does relieve the mind,
as the gentle touch of a lover,
in the evening under the moonglow.
