The Game from Moonscreen by David Woodruff

You played the game anew,
saw the ball from a different angle.
And now as you swing through,
as always, so much to do.
You can let if flow forth, wash away, throw it all out.

Turning a phrase, damn it to hell.
Feel the malaise seeping in
Do it again, I doubt it’s a sin.
Don’t feel ashamed of sleeping in.

In the interest of saving face,
you changed the names, rearranged the place.
The only victim then was taste.
You shrug your shoulders, it doesn’t matter.
You can tear it apart, set it ablaze, frame it in archival glass.

Turning a phrase, damn it to hell.
Feel the malaise seeping in
Do it again, I doubt it’s a sin.
Don’t feel ashamed of sleeping in.

It gets heavy, it grows dark.
They’re shining flashlights outside the park,
looking for your hit’s remains.
You’d like to think so, you hope it does go.
You can show a close friend, post it online,
or carry it with you to your grave.

Turning a phrase, damn it to hell.
Don't feel the malaise creeping in
Do it again, I doubt it’s a sin.
Don’t feel ashamed of sleeping in.

• Alternative
• soft-cringe
• Bloomington