There's a dragon in my garden,
Belching out its smoke.
And taking me to clarity,
Inside its gentle, burning toke.
Waking all the neighbours,
With its protestations,
As my brother Jimi,
Chops mountains with his hand.
I see the sun start rising,
I feel the winter chill,
I see the sapphire sky,
Hear the Sunday, still.
And so, I leave my honesty,
Seeking to impress,
Become the people's poet,
And now you like me less.
©GONZOLECTURE
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