A single tear runs down his painted cheek,
as he stairs after his lost love, of midnight jests
and songs of oh mistress Mary, where are you roaming, seeking
the silence that is left, as the cockerel’s beak
is tied and his wings are clipped; this is best,
yet still, a single tear runs down his painted cheek.
Take away the fool gentlemen, not the freak
who sits there, patience on a monument for guests
and with a song of love, and loss and seeking, seeking
joy in a place it cannot be had, and pain will leak
through every crevice, shining through eyes, and it rests
in the single tear that runs down his painted cheek.
Some are born great and he has forgotten the rest, weak
in his soul from the walking away, and the pain that nests
in a song of death, and fear – not strong, but meek, so meek,
as he fades into the waves as the raise and peak,
as the howling echoes, blowing from the west.
And a single tear runs down his painted cheek,
and songs of and a hey, ho, the wind… and the rain…