I still like Careful With that Axe, Eugene. At least I can remember the words. Lessee...

Gotta go. The night is gettin' later and my eyelids are bleedin'....Here, I'll share one mah poems:

Melancholy seeps like the sludge of leaves
Beneath the cracks and roots
Unseen they decay in silence entombed.

Melancholy is a voice that calls in the fog
Echoing in the sound, it is lost:
It is a whisper, as silent as a vinegaroon.

In turns, the mourning and the weary
Pace through the gloom of day
Waiting for night, for the cool embrace of ebony.

Waking days sear through heart and fiber
Bright light is no friend to those
More suited to angst and anomie.

Melancholy is a spike that strikes
Deep within bone and sinew.
It strikes with no regard to want of vim.

Melancholy pauses and never stirs
It lies in wait like a lynx
Crouched and patient and thin.

Melancholy is a friend to the friendless
It is a lover to the loveless
A prostitute with promises of retreat and refuge.

In melancholy, the days blend and blur
In an opium drenched reverie:
A secret, wrapped in veiled subterfuge.