I contributed some lyrics last night
to the jazz music the squirrels were playing.
I’m always terrified of displaying
how I’m out of touch and don’t think quite right
and the squirrels’ playing is always so tight
that I’m extra frightened now wondering
what they’ll make of my words, my blundering
narration of their chaos and delight.
But if I didn’t try to contribute
funny words I put together with lust
for a girl and a painting and a grail
I’d feel a loneliness so absolute
I’d stop listening. Terror’s better than rust.
Both don’t sleep. But the squirrels might like my tale.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Squirrels And The Lost Mountains Of Tibet
Boo!
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