Little Notes come on
Through cyber space on a bet.
The cold rain on my window
Tries to make a good show.
Mother rests quietly in her room,
We bury his mother soon,
I read of a cousinís battle
While she wonít rattle,
Her motherís trial on the table
But soon will be more able.
An acquaintance tell of her travail
As she cares for her husbandís ail.
Another feels she is going to hell,
Iím not so sure she isnít there now, as well.
Now the floor must be get a mop,
Cooking for the funeral on top,
Why am I so content,
When mind should be rent.
With all these circumstance,
It must be because I learned to dance.