I MISS THE EXTREMES

I'm a middle of the road, kind of guy.
No more twelve-hour days...
No more sweating in the hot sun,
no more drinking, chasing women,
gambling, or gunnin' on the run.
I'm retired, uninspired, expired, done.
I'm no longer on fire,
but I'd be a liar,
if I claimed:
I want out of the game.
I now must exclaim,
I miss the extremes...
The big CAT machines,
the power from schemes,
I had so many dreams.
But, I'm a middle of the road, kind of guy, now.
Enveloped in comforts,
I live a slow death in suburbia.
It gets on my nerves.
Too much time on my hands,
no brass bands,
to announce my comings-or-goings.
It's crazy, you hear!?
There's nobody here.
I talk to myself, my mind's on the shelf,
and inside the computer.
I'm a cat who's been neutered.
I sit on a pillow,
I weep like a willow,
and long for days of extremes,
those youthful, wild dreams,
which never come true,
but I must renew,
I cannot eschew,
what made me feel new:
this life of extremes,
if only in dreams,
will save me this day.
For, I vow to myself,
I will not shelf,
what I have learned,
and what I have spurned.
Though on the middle-path,
somehow I laugh,
at the folks of extremes,
they think I'm "living the dream",
and long for my life,
of security, no strife.
It's all so insane,
the mind plays its' games
on those of extremes,
and men with old dreams.