when one has yet milk on his philtrum
his mind is only to saunter off and wander far
far to dreams which are free to buy, to sell fine
and to materialize demands more
from the strength of infancy and nascence

free, free, free they are
and they saunter, wander off and far

when one's milk drips off to his lips
and swallowed by the arid lust for reality
dreams once free turn to dust and demise
only the glory of life he would yearn to find
and its pleasures, not its treasures

he lives off in hopes of betterment,
not the beauty and contingency of content
but when the grill of reality sears his skin
no dreams, no hope will then weather
its wreath of deathly flames