Thursday, December 5, 2013
I Know Too Much
I know too much about sensibilities of the square,
So no, the making of choirs is uneasy,
And singing is my hobby,
That launches into quiet corn and quiet bread.
The poor food wretchedly fiddles and fuddles,
And inside I feel hurt for the doings of others
That blindly beat with fortunate blood that boils.
I know that much is everything,
Too much of one matter relegates a topic,
And this discussion does it:
Today there is a new beginning
For the long words inside us.