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.