The man of the hour, he came to town, when the hand
Sang his name in rhyme. And Slowly did he move, from door, to door.
For choices and a score too bleak, just to knock. And did he find the
Home he sought as he made his stride on the chimes of twelve?
Yes, yes; He found the knob, he made his stop, where he steadied, then knocked.
Then he banged and banged to Jesus man’s hearing, he roughed the hardwood,
He tilted the hinges, he kept his pounding till hounds were sobbing.
When the door bolted a man was scurrying, light in hand to stop this man handling.
Then he saw the face, the face of this man, he saw, then made to say, he saw then went white in haste:
“The midnight man. The midnight man.
You’ve come to your future, so we start the race.”
The man said nothing, made to enter, he strode through and saw, his future is this, while faces and lights
Peeked through snooping curtains and hissed:
“The man is back, the man of the night.
He’s come to claim his future at last.”
“The Midnight Man“, they call him.
And When the hands meet and night is up.
The midnight man make his choice, while the town sleeps, while they live the night.
|| LEBRECHT ||
|| THE METAPHYSICAL ||