Here I sit with pen
(oops) make that keyboard
Trying to write
what I scarce understand.
My mind (gosh, make that computer)
A jungle of half formed plans.
I spew (heavens, make that send)
into the land.
Thoughts that have no form
We can make a mother board
Give me a cat with a bird to kill.
I’ll cook his hide and pluck a quill.
I’ll bleed for ink and if the sheep are still.
I’ll get a skin to write my will.
Oh for the Good Old Daze.