Polish your pails,
push on your pens,
began to paint your promising evenings,
pick out your underpants
Prepare for your sails for sea,

Gather your gaieties
and songs for a silent day,
take your time for sweet remedies,
prayers, and mantras without shame,
rather than toil with the shambles,
and pains of the day

Duty calls a silent whistle,
I can hear in mornings wind,
through the woe of every window,
blow a sweet heaven scent.