Turn About
My sorrowful pen, my notebook, full of pain
from long neglect, confront me as I plead
my case for treating them with rough disdain –
for they can’t abide a careless deed,
however driven by necessity –
We are the petty servants of the heart,
it’s true, they say, but anyone can see
how far you fall in failing to depart.
So let fatigue and sickness do their worst,
I’ll walk a while under the sun today,
perhaps repent of caring who’s the first
or who’s the last along this weirder way.
It feels like death to turn aside and choose
to ditch what wiser men would fear to lose.
My sorrowful pen, my notebook, full of pain
from long neglect, confront me as I plead
my case for treating them with rough disdain –
for they can’t abide a careless deed,
however driven by necessity –
We are the petty servants of the heart,
it’s true, they say, but anyone can see
how far you fall in failing to depart.
So let fatigue and sickness do their worst,
I’ll walk a while under the sun today,
perhaps repent of caring who’s the first
or who’s the last along this weirder way.
It feels like death to turn aside and choose
to ditch what wiser men would fear to lose.
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