There is a little lad inside my head. He sits in his arm-chair critiquing with lead. Posting pages of notes upon my walls, Of moments where I wish I saw:
The way she looks and stares with grace, A broken down car and the man who waved, The bluejay who perched upon the sill, And moments that I could never fill- again.
With a marvelous triumph I give him praise, For the things I have learned, improving future days. If it were not for the little lad inside my head. I would be cold and empty and without a worthy head.