His head is spinning with the theory

Between each gig; all is lost.

A gaping hole of anxious self-pity

A drain where once a reservoir stood

His life is measured in monthly cycles

Of moon and Mr. J.P. Morgan

Where once he toiled to change the oceans

Now he moves to follow the flood

It rains with fury this dark Tuesday morning

He works alone in his cosmic man cave

Seattle glassworks mildly smolder in the tray

Francis Francis stays red, hot and brewing