the rain is my shower.
The sweet, green grass my bed.
Perfume is the lilac flower
that dangles on stalks of silky thread.

A canopy of trees is the roof.
A dancing breeze, my fan.
No man here to reproof
or make some onerous plan.

The squirrel’s antics make me laugh.
Lunch is hanging from the tree.
I cut a red plump apple in half,
and down it with a wedge of brie.

My song, the melodic canary.
No television or radio,
just a swinging hammock and sherry.
Life's too fast not to take things slow.