I’m not an ice-block or wasted teardrop,
mooching around your Long Island Iced Tea.
I’m not chasing dreams, dreaming of Jeannie,
won’t slow for one more whistle stop.
I’ve never bridged sighs, I don’t island hop,
or tasted the free airs of Heaney.
Nor held a heart that, like some Houdini,
didn’t vanish with barbaric yawp.
I have set no flame within love’s hearth
to burn that shantytown down.
At night I am king, come morning uncrowned.
I walk in as Luke, march out as Darth.
Rivers are rivers, regardless of flow–
O, stone, be not so; O, stone, be not so.

Ryan Stone