Its here I think thoughts About Becks and of Birds. And I bully some words Cause I push them for fun.
Ideas are like bubbles that you blow from a bottle. And I want one so bad to repair and remodel. But those sly little orbs, they alight on green stubble. And what can you do with a pool of broke bubble?
Ensconced in this glen. With a belly of chagrin. The ink in my pen Weaves a magical pun.
And maybe my quill Is the one at the wheel. And I’m just the guest riddin’ shotgun?