in like lions and out like lambs
you ride the burgeoning tide
and hold the world-cross
in your hands
in your hands
made of fine and polished clay
what you offer i accept
what you say i must obey

counting dreams and memories
leaping high while sitting still
in my bed i am fine
until
the buzz of a nagging bee
reminds me
there is one who loves me still

all good things come in threes
so i venture to write a third
verse, without counting
any line or any word
so as not to be drunk on ink
but solely focused on an impression
an obsession
which has been growing and now
looses itself from rulebound chains
to love you as freely as any
green field born child