I think I am getting up,
I think I might rise:
The sound of music coming from
My neighbor’s house is not exactly a lullaby;
And I am pure insanity!
So he who plays the wood box
Square in a chair by a window seat,
I would hope be almost too heavy to lift,
Or would lockup;
But whatever the music means,
I pray would dissolve into thin air.
He shapes and misshapens it
Like a melon strolling on two tendrils;
I am writhing my hands in fortitude,
I am boarding the train for an institute
And there is no getting off!
By doing so, that hideous sound
Would ignore me immediately;
But my neighbor stares quite indignantly,
For you see he is tone-dead.
Copyright © 11/22/18 lance sheridan®