The barstools stopped turning.

The food got cold.

The people stopped coming.

The place got old.

All that remains is a kite-shaped light,

Without a tail, it can fly in the night,

It used to give us all a fright,

But now we dance in deep delight.

“We are the forks and the knives,” said we.

“And we are the spoons & napkins,” you see.

To be purposeless is to be set free,

unbound from the chains of expectancy.

No use for a fork or a spoon or a knife.

We gather each and every night,

To celebrate our second life,

And dance beneath that red bright light.