We poke and we prod
and we wonder if God
has plans where we both shall meet

We slip and we slur
and we ponder what were
the ache of a friendship complete

Such is the truth
of a man in a booth
drinking a whisky and rye

Such are the quirks
of a chick in a skirt
loosing the smirk of a sigh

There seems in the dreams
the twisted sad schemes
to be no joke as we die

So let go an odd poke
and slam out a hurt prod
but hold back each question why