Twas’ noonish, and the buttered loaves
Did twist and crumble in the drawer.
All tipsy were the apple groves
From the fru-its that they wore.
The madness now is rushing back:
"I know I’m crazy." This he thought.
The table folded up its legs
And sat as it was taught.
The record-player hummed its best
Quite proud to make the loudest noise.
The bottles tints invited squints
And sat in quiet poise.
"But wait!" the author cried alarmed
(Quite to himself - he is no fool…)
"I’m getting too excited here!
I’ve got to keep my cool!!!"
And so he wrote of simple things
Like taping reels that spin and spout
And music bouncing off the walls
And knocking all about.
But then the chair lifted its leg
And wet upon the brown machine
And all the men came off the wall
And tried to keep it clean!
"It just won’t work!" the head man cried,
The notes were shooting madly back.
The twelve came hurtling at my brow
And hit me with a SMACK!!
Twas’ noonish, and the buttered loaves
Did twist and crumble in the drawer.
All tipsy were the apple groves
From the fru-its that they wore…
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