Counting Daisies
By ERIKA BEAVER
Does he love me? She asks herself a lot.
Picking the pedals off the daisy
One by one. He loves me. He loves me not.
Oh relax! I’m sure he loves you.
Now let’s look at all these other people.
See what they all like to do.
I mean, look at that woman with the girl.
They are so perfectly matched,
It makes me want to hurl.
What about that lady with the monkey?
And the man standing to her right.
What an odd couple they are, you see?
Look at the man in the writers’ hat.
Sitting up on his elbows
Like he’s a cool ol’ cat
Or that guy with the cane
He looks like he’s important
He looks like he’s semi sane.
And that black dog sniffing around
Trying to sneak a slice.
Of pizza off of the ground.
See those rowers out in the water?
Oh what hard work they are doing.
So out of breath, no room for laughter.
That trumpet player sounds nice
If I had a piece of pie
I’d offer him a big slice.
And here I am holding my umbrella
Listening to you,
Wonder about your fella.
No comments:
Post a Comment