Mystic Bayou Campfire

I
Sit around a mystic bayou campfire,
Not me, by myself,
But US.

I, that is, WE,
Roast songs of endless gooey goodness
And drink cold cold horrible Bacardi
From a bottle covered in old dead pine needles.

I, and possibly, WE,
Will wake in the middle of a dizzy carnival ride
And open our tent flap
And out of our mouths, the night will flow
Beyond the top of our lungs but into the future
And the past will be affected
And the past will not exist,
And the past will spiral down in electric carbonation.

I, not alone, but with the world,
Sit around a mystic bayou campfire
And we are no longer bored.