You’re flying high
On a cloud
In a too blue sky,
Then suddenly low
At half past late
Land at hell’s gate,
Yet soon revert
Without you bide
To feel quite pert,
When up down ride
Now finds your mind inert…
Fixed on a whirlwind
Of mood swings,
This state of mind
From obsequious smile
To woebegone resign,
Wants but loose the moods
That plays one like a fiddle!