The Misfit Lounge

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My son, you who stand in the street by the square
Illumined by the glow of the street lantern

My son, the young toughs beckon
“Come with us,” they say
To ambush and collect spoil
A life of wealth and ease

My son, Wisdom cries out in the street by the square
Shouting, “Come to me, I’ll make you rich”
But wait, the street is desolate
The square is empty

On the far side of town
The enticers roam the murky streets
Blinded by the damp fog, quite naive
Staggering through the denseness

But my son, your dread has come like a storm
For these enticers lie in wait for their own blood
They ambush their own sous

My son, you who stand in the street by the square
Illumined by the glow of the street lantern
My son, Wisdom cries out
Wisdom cries out in the street
Shouting, “Come to me, I’ll make you rich”