Maybe we’ve moved past The jazz dancing nights Baby brownie bites into freedom Now A pathology of pathologically pathetic patterns Day in, day out Wax on, wax off One of these days: I’ll learn the piano Beethoven, bach, ben folds One of these days Handstands, happiness, hope Will string through the summer loving Hooligans One of these days We robo-people will wind down, Slow, Stop, Need oil for our rusted bits Head, shoulders, knees, and even toes But, mr. tin man, what if Dorothy Never comes along? We won’t blink for centuries And maybe the world will finally come alive