In my working days world,
Outside little birdies do swirl,
With wings and songs saying,
Wee birds in trees are playing,
But my blue drab or grey suit,
That chains me to my roots,
With only windows to imagine
A world so colourful, tangible,
Is shroud, only wrap of clothes,
Yet little birds, so downy robed,
And within my comely, demise,
See how brightly birdies do fly,
As I shudder, muted, wintering,
O how wee birdies can sing.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
In my working days world,
Outside little birdies do swirl,
With wings and songs saying,
Wee birds in trees are playing,
But my blue drab or grey suit,
That chains me to my roots,
With only windows to imagine
A world so colourful, tangible,
Is shroud, only wrap of clothes,
Yet little birds, so downy robed,
And within my comely, demise,
See how brightly birdies do fly,
As I shudder, muted, wintering,
O how wee birdies can sing.
