'No, little Johnny, raindrops are really just
the tears of sweet angels, who cry. Cry
because of sins that people commit,
and that is why, my smart and curious boy,
You have your arms
My lips caress the softness of your face.
No words are spoken
It was Country Western yesterday,
and Classical Music on Monday,
the Beatles of the sixties
are a distant memory.
Yes, it is me
who looks at You
from the oddest places and strangest faces
as I just happen to be
To introduce myself: I'm Wil.
I hope you like my hair!
And, should you find I fit the bill,
I'll be your special bear.
Quite ill and running a high fever
I found inside my box a beaver.
How did a beaver get inside
perhaps he was in need to hide.
When I woke up this morning, sweet,
I looked at empty space.
Your covers still were straight and neat,
your nightie flashed its lace.
...as we get to the river
still holding hands tight,
and in stitches our livers
at evening's last light.
On a Sunday afternoon,
when temperatures soared
in the Australian outback
he sat, silently on a termite hill