|
Flimsy, floppy whims all in a
row,
Listen, listen how the wind does blow.
Still the night,
Stars so bright,
Why the struggle?
Better to snuggle,
Or so I'm told,
By the garish bold,
Who know of nothing,
Outside the ring.
So it is back again,
To that restless wind.
Men often presume,
Other's exhume,
While they fathom
Some strange notion,
Prod and poke at it
Much like a dim wit,
While I can only work
Ignore whatever quirk. |
