There's axolotls swimming round
and undiscovered jungle ruins
Of temples there.
He's quite aware.
But ask him and he can't explain.
The wiring's strange.
And number-crunching going on
Sophisticated stuff at that.
But if you ask him what he thinks.
He indicates towards the drinks.
His wagon train is winding through
some bison-crowded avenue
For all you know
Approach him though
And what you'll get can be mundane
Or slightly odd
The filing system in that attic
Isn't one that's used elsewhere
A touch of vagueness in the eyes
Is all that you may recognise.
But somewhere in that rambling house
a light comes on from time to time
A muffled sound
Of pacing round
And something gnawing at its chain
Best not go near
His crotchets incubate like ants
Until it's time to leave the nest.
Or gather like migrating birds
And wait on wires to ambush words
It's quiet downstairs but up above
Some lunatics are making love
Beside a fire
Best not enquire
As once you spark it up again
It won't turn off.
Musician's brain.Reuse content