Gypsy sits the

Spaces between the winds;

Possessing the means

But, for the moment,

Getting no message.

Surrounded by the busy fools

Whose lives are ruled by iron,

That join the same redundant lines,

Piling day onto day,

Turning golden time

Into heavy lead.

Gypsy sits the winds

Between the spaces.

Normally Desperate

We small-moon freaks and

Too-many-times passed-over clowns

Can be savagely beautiful together,

Marching proudly down roads country

And those loud with lights,

To an unfamiliar beat:

While you struggle constantly to

Engage the electron-gypsy muse

Each day, normally desperate to

Be part of some never-ending story-dream;

Hiding from the obvious blinding fact

That nothing will need to remember this race

When we lose our way, lose our place.