When sleep becomes elusive as a fox
I chase the dreams that dwell in shallow graves
I find that death has claimed a wooden box
And hides beneath the stones that no one saves
My metaphors are mixed like fox and stones
And yet, there’s still a coffin in the ground
The music there is made of solemn tones
And sung by bloody birds without a sound
It’s poetry, so everything is right
As right as scraping horse shit off the street
When water turns to wine there’s more of it
Of poetry, not wine before we eat
All mimsy were the sounds that no one’s seen
It shows the way that mold is oddly green.