June 7, 1974
7:50 p.m. 
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
Coming Home
As often as this, on Friday nights we find we have to roam, But when you're full, and life seems short It's great to be at home. My thoughts are mingled with my deeds I have erratic ways But when my music stops it's play I find I count my days The roads are paved, but autos crash Whatever's illegal, they'll find the stash You're living on credit, but God wants cash In your Grandmother's grave, there's nothing but ash While Friday night people cram beer down their throats And live a small life - I never can be at home only once That I find I can rest a while
copyright 1999-2004 by Michael F. Nyiri
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