I have hills to sing to and lie beside,
For the pen is for erasure as much as sin;
The music of the clouds is of the mountain,
The self is a profession of polite health.
May we sing the work of an afternoon,
Compiling the literature so earned today.
My thoughts are the same everyday,
Like an oath has been pledged for my life
To succeed and play happiness.
The record can be pathetic, and boredom often
Sets in, to delight the fathers and mothers.
Friday, December 24, 2010