last season's fruit

not one thing left that anyone could gain
and this is not a war you'd hope to win
there's nothing here that's ever clear or plain
we threw the honest options in the bin
and for the rest we let the coin spin
exchanging what had been the happy site
of youthful hope for a handful of tin
and sounds of gunfire in the middle night

there's never hope of decent mist or rain
instead we huddle close and drink our gin
while waiting for true decency in vain
the dirt has found its way beneath the skin
and all our honour turned into chagrin
we know that we must lose in every fight
we listen for the soulful violin
and sounds of gunfire in the middle night

what's left of us would make a tiny stain
a message poked out by a sharpish pin
by one who long ago was lost or slain
too cold outside and yet more cold within
it's hard enought either to smirk or grin
when waiting for the other ones to bite
too shrill the voices of our friends and kin
and sounds of gunfire in the middle night

prince we grow tired of your eternal grin
you've led us far from the sustaining light
we hear our chances growing yet more thin
and sounds of gunfire in the middle night