I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage
I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

Do I belong in hospitals?
While I keep digging my own grave.
And I guess while I'm at it,
a mote to keep loved ones away.
My comfort and my misery,
why must they be one in the same?

Now I've created a situation
Where I can't live a double life
I cornered myself
With a devastating confession
Now I am a wild animal
Observed and charted
From an inherent distance
Solitary by nature
And beaten by natural law