The dreams left in order

You had no memory

Of who you were 

Your days were a mystery

To everyone who cared

And that was pretty much no one 

The manager of days was sleeping in a Jean Giono novel

It was a man in a small village in France

Smoking a pipe 

And asking for a bottle of red wine

But the pistol lay hidden 

In the barley 

And he shit himself 

Oops