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I flog, fling,

Flitter and fly,

Right up to the morning's eye,

Spools of ink and schlogs of pie.

The morning's eye will hear beyond

And throw all my words into the pond.

The pond will bubble and burst with song,

The frogs will quick and strike the gong.

The willow will wail, "The word is wrong."

Mushrat will squeal and bear the curse

Of putting this hectic into verse,

While I drive up in a pea-green hearse,

Preparing my soul for the terse

"This isn't what we're looking for."


I flog and fling this curt reply

And never say sorry to morning's eye.