In a Peculiar Arc (for drunks, madmen, Aspies and Bukowski)

IN A PECULIAR ARC

She swings her feet in a peculiar arc,
a dirty little girl in a dirty little dress,
yellow and stained with red punch.
She says frosting tastes like sadness.
And madness is always present.
Then she swings her feet in the sun,
sitting on a wall, waiting,
for all the king's men.
I always said "that was a long wait."
She says "I got time.
Baby, I got time."
And I see her dragging it behind her,
reluctantly,
like an old yellow dog on a leash,
dead since Saturday.
"Oh, I got time."
It's the burden that drags you down.

[b]I like this a lot!/b]