It seems there’s no difference ‘tween Monday and Friday
cause the Caribbean Highway runs on rum.
There’s no need to argue; no your way or my way.
It all just burns off in the sun.
And we float here like drawings of lost constellations;
unknown but to someone ‘fore time had begun,
as we marvel in memories of forgotten destinations
while our skin all turns brown and our worries come unspun.
Oh the vastness of all these pleasurable sensations
and Godly demonstrations of holy creations.
Oh all this temptation to stay here and linger;
it swirls round my head like the air through my fingers.
Oh all the expectations that I could have pondered
have been dwarfed by the sights since I’ve been here and wandered.
If figments of dreams could be cast on the Earth,
there’d be no end in debating this Freudian worth.
If standard deviations could be measured in pigments,
there’d be six hundred billion and counting in sigmas.
For the skies turn the pinkest of pink ‘fore they’re blue;
magentas and oranges of unimaginable hue.
And the heat waves run hotter the whole summer through.
Continually warmer; like nothing I knew.
And it all just builds up in a glorious glow;
with no shirt on, just waiting for the cool breeze to blow.