Vagabond

got nothing to my name

but my name and a bag of song

my name and a bag of song

just an aimless vagabond

picture this: a clover 

 at the cliffs of Moher

on the west coast of Ireland

in the County Clare

im sittin over here

puttin a spliff into the air

which i got from Olly

who gave it as a gift in Galway

so im gittin high like always

listenin to what the gulls say

my eyes wont pull away

from this food for my dreams

is that the sound of the cavern breathing?

or the heartbeat of the sea?

a certain yearning is expressed

upon the faces of the cliff

the water waiting for me to jump

over the edge and take a dip

every single stone has been a sentry

for centuries

killing time until erosion

decides to set them free

leaping with a lift from the cliff

gravity defied

may the dream be live 

or just a lovely way to die?