As I walk past the river Tyne,
I like to think of water droplets
As thoughts unspoken moving on the string of time.

The lone fisherman casts his line come what may,
Tears of laughter, times of fear and doubt,
The rain, the rock, the river washes all away.

So again I howl to the moon,
Whilst ripples shine and disintegrate like mica
And it pulls on me like a junkie spoon.

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