Waiting, outside, for something big to happen.
My thoughts of what might come are blooming
like myrtle does this time of year. They are tappin'
my mind from the inside, all my time consuming.

Waiting, inside, in my bed, rethinking most of
my thoughts, hoping they'll come true, wishing
they will become real. If they do I will, my love,
finally be able to stop my imperishable fishing.

I should commence any form of action, anything
should do. Because doing nothing is nothing I
would do, I think, whilst getting out of my bitter bed.

Maybe I could speak or laugh or squeak or sing
for her. Filled with shame, perhaps therefore I'll die,
hence I have only got yellow courage in my head.