Just as surely as I knew my name, I was certain of the deal.
It was as good as done.
Come tomorrow, the deal I shall seal,
Then to Canada, I shall be gone.
But who knows? Tomorrow could be serpentine.
And when I laid down to sleep,
For excitement, my lofty bed seemed to be floating on air.
Uncountable were the number of times I went to the window to peep.
I could hardly wait for the morning so I could fly to see Mr. Claire.
But who knows? Tomorrow could be serpentine.
Finally, I sat with Mr. Claire in the morning.
Alas! I’d only sat with his image and the deal only existed in my head.
My full blown balloon of certainty was now as thin as a mucus-saturated kerchief in the house of mourning.
I had only been living in the exquisite mansion of expectancy instead.
But who knows? Tomorrow could be serpentine.
My hope was dashed.
And my sky scraping expectations came tumbling down like children’s building blocks,
But I pretended as if I’ve not been ditched
And as though I already earned some bucks.
But who knows? Tomorrow could be serpentine.
I realized that I would’ve been safer if I had expected less.
The scattered building blocks of my expectations had taught me a bitter lesson.
Tomorrow taught me to remain on the fence and ceaselessly bless,
In and out of season.
But who knows? Tomorrow could be serpentine.
With my lofty bed gone, I’m laying on my bed that’s as thin as a dog’s tongue.
I want to hope for the better but I can’t anymore.
I hear short raps on my door that sounds like music played with a metal gong.
As he disappeared into the dark, I then realized that my non stop thanks must have made Mr. Greg’s ears sore.
But who knows? Tomorrow could be serpentine.
