I'm still young, but I know my days are numbered. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 and so on. But a time will come, when these numbers have all ended. And all I've ever seen will be forgotten.
I sit each morning, look at my empty notebook. The room is quiet, the air conditioning sounds like rain falling. Manic-depressive composer Robert Schumann, when he could not write.
I was walking through the country. And passing through lovely scenery. When I came upon some rotting remains. And though the carcass was wormy. Well, after all, it's all part of nature's art of cleaning.
What is it that makes me just a little bit queasy?. There's a breeze that makes my breathing not so easy. I've had my lungs checked out with X rays. I've smelled the hospital hallways.
What is it that makes me just a little bit queasy?. There's a breeze that makes my breathing not so easy. I've had my lungs checked out with X rays. I've smelled the hospital hallways.
I've been aching to sneeze. Begging please, pretty please. But I can't get the thing to come out. . I've been down on my knees. I've been pissing on trees.