Up in smoke it goes

With such tender tendrils

That wrap us tight

At last,

The cigar days have passed

But only the lonely

Coyote knows it

A scoundrel tramp

He trots across our camp

To call us rightly,

Wily, with grief,

For a people easily pleased

'Tis indeed

A desert guide we need;

We're always only smoking drifters

While a sun is soon to rise

And aren't we getting cold here

After all?

Shall we shiver near 

Or pilgrim

With him there?

The coyote knows

And beckons evermore

For from the East

A cowboy rides

Colliding with the night.

Without darkness,

Where will all  

The vagrants hide?

Up in smoke,

Down in light,

What if the midnight prophecies 

Are right?