I’m going to write some verse
On who and what I am
And oh the very thought
Makes me want to jig and jam
Will I write of the time
when the starfish came to visit
or when I taught the birds to pray
and the frogs to go ribbit?
I think I’d rather tell you
of the mountain tops I climbed-
the flying fish that sang for me
the passing clouds that sighed-
When I danced on the moon and
the flowers bloomed and beamed
and the woodpecker took a bow
and the earthworms all cheered.
For will you not prefer the me
who lives in dreams of magic showers-
than the one with eyes open
in the singeing burn of hours?