The second hand spinning round
Points to sixtythreemillioneonethreethousandeighthundredfiftytwo

A second hand in mine
The carousel goes round again
No outstretched fingers, no straining arms
Just brass rings rainlike
Into overflowing pockets

Poems turned to kisses like sparks to fireworks
Light the touch-paper and never stand back
What's a finger or two between friends?
Just touch the paper lightly
Burn me your words and I'll do the same
Written, not even whispered,
Echoes of midnight lazy promises
Written not, even whispered

A second year so soon gone and still never soon enough those seconds
Between eyes that wake open and eyes that see yours

(and now we return and begin again)

Time at last for October kisses
Light fingertips down my back like unseen drops of morning fog
And brightsharp breezes that draw her near

Time for hot chocolate and cider spices
Mornings late in bed with blankets pulled up tight and close as skin
and endless ghost-story-late nights
Watch kept by candles guttering like jack-o-lantern eyes

Hand-in-hand on walked-down streets
like children out for trick-or-treat
Sun slants down low and lazy through burning turning leaves
Tumble down to spread out at our feet like hair spilled over pillows

The world turning carousel-fast under our feet
and I can feel the shape of a year in its arc
Hidden from cold in shelter and dark with
Every touch of her candy-apple lips

I want scars from you
My skin made a written word that no one can speak
Its meaning only read in your eyes
I want scars from you,
Not just from each kind touch of your cruel hand
But from every look, every glance
I can feel your eyes sharp on my skin
And each word, each hot breath at my neck
So the marks should rise up just the same
Secret poems and sacred names
I want to be your love letter to the world,
Many-folded, never sent and pocket-kept
But ever-meant and dedicated still
To each grain of beach sand, each fallen flower,
Every last blood-gold sunset

Hipsters, flipsters, and finger-poppin' daddies,
Knock me your lobes,
I came to lay Ceasar out,
Not to hip you to him.
The bad jazz that a cat blows,
Wails long after he's cut out.
The groovey is often stashed with their frames,
So don't put Caesar down.
The swinging Brutus hath laid a story on you
That Caesar was hungry for power.
If it were so, it was a sad drag,
And sadly hath the Caesar cat answered it.
Here with a pass from Brutus and the other brass,
For Brutus is a worthy stud,
Yea, so are they all worthy studs,
Though their stallions never sleep.
I came to wail at Ceasar's wake.
He was my buddy, and he leveled with me.
Yet Brutus digs that he has eyes for power,
And Brutus is a solid cat.
It is true he hath returned with many freaks in chains
And brought them home to Rome.
Yea, the looty was booty
And hip the trays we weld(?)
Dost thou dig that this was Caesar's groove
For the putsch?
When the cats with the empty kicks hath copped out,
Yea, Caesar hath copped out, too,
And cried up a storm.
To be a world grabber a stiffer riff must be blown.
Without bread a stud can't even rule an anthill.
Yet Brutus was swinging for the moon.
And, yea, Brutus is a worthy stud.
And all you cats were gassed on the Lupercal
When he came on like a king freak.
Three times I lay the kingly wig on him,
And thrice did he put it down.
Was this the move of a greedy hipster?
Yet, Brutus said he dug the lick,
And, yes, a hipper cat has never blown.
Some claim that Brutus' story was a gag.
But I dug the story was solid.
I came here to blow.
Now, stay cool while I blow.
You all dug him once
Because you were hipped that he was solid
How can you now come on so square
Now that he's tapped out of this world.
City Hall is flipped
And swung to a drunken zoo
And all of you cats are goofed to wig city.
Dig me hard.
My ticker is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And, yea, I must stay cool til it flippeth back to me.

-- Lord Buckley