What Fun It Would Be To Be

Life Is A Child Playing Round Your Feet, A Tool You Hold Firmly In Your Grip, A Bench You Sit Down Upon In The Evening, In Your Garden.

It Is Restful, Tragedy, Because One Knows That There Is No More Lousy Hope Left. You Know You're Caught, Caught At Last Like A Rat With All The World On Its Back. And The Only Thing Left To Do Is Shout - Not Moan, Or Complain, But Yell Out At The Top Of Your Voice Whatever It Was You Had To Say. What You've Never Said Before. What Perhaps You Don't Even Know Till Now.

Life Isn't What You Think It Is. It's Like Water, And The Young Let It Trickle Away Between Their Fingers Without Even Noticing. Cup Your Hands, Keep It Safe. Life Eventually Becomes Something Else, Something Hard, Something Simple, Something You Can Hold In Your Hand And Nibble On Contentedly As You Sit In The Sun.

There Will Always Be A Lost Dog Somewhere That Will Keep Me From Being Happy.

Tragedy Is Restful: And The Reason Is That Hope, That Foul, Deceitful Thing, Has No Part In It.