A mother’s words pursues them
From tavern to saloon
Beneath the glow of onlookers
Sprawled along their wooden shore

Midnights glimmer
And young lads dash
For the arms of no consequence
For fleeting stints of passion

The midnight’s glimmer
Washes the crude ashore
Brittle in their garb
And vulgar in their tone

Their fiddles whimper
As foolish pairs trail away
Below the eternal gaslights
That berate the high, crumbling moon

Above in her glory
Was the crisp lunar phase
As a waning streak of gold
For only the damned to claim

But the cruelty of day
Drowns out the careless glimmer
Driving away the nightly clutter
Into shadows of slumber and dismay