Lord Byron’s dead

[& dreaming] on the can

With a Playgirl stapled to a

Playboy in his rigor mortised lap

The needle, the damage done & the

rubber tubing still ‘round his arm

Oh & the flatulence & the crap

Soliloquies are for sissies, didn’t

They tell you, man?   Love don’t sell

Guns & beer & gasoline at th polls

Nor score touchdowns...&/or goals

~~

Words by Lord Byron (1788-1824)
Music by Leonard Cohen

So we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.