|
Scrambling
It doesn’t matter
If the yolk is broke
We’re scrambling,
The Hatter sat
On the edge of the pan,
Alice came by
With a soft feather fan,
Lennon cried
You’ve got to be high,
Blame it all
On the fourth of July,
The Parallel held
At the fifty yard line,
Tap your guitars
We’re scrambling just fine.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
|
|