songs

My soul is singing like the birds.
A poet’s pen will lend it words,
and on a scrap of dog-eared paper,
before they disappear like vapor,

I'll lay, not melancholic lines.
(a peevish poet pouts and pines)
Instead, I'll write the way I oughta,
like Keats, who wrote upon the water

with young man’s blood, not old man’s ink,
to make you feel, not make you think!
And when, like Keats, I give up breathing,
like storm-tossed sea that’s ceased its seething,

you'll have my songs writ down in rhyme.
(Go read 'em when you get the time.)
These vestiges of starlight, gleaming,
they constitute my lifetime’s dreaming.