BUSTING A GUT TO GET OUT OF A RUT.

Just give me
An unstructured day
Once a week
And I’ll speak of it
Till the next one
Comes along;

With it’s snipped strings
And drifting
Live rafts cast against
The lullaby waves
Of great
Stretches of time;

Miming labour’s day
Whilst biding its
Own business
And hiding
My schedule
Until school starts again,

And I’ll pen it a tune
From my folk singer’s
Loom,
And a yarn
Of the harm
Lived without it.

But the baby’s got ants
In his pants,
And he hasn’t
Any pants on,
So I guess
This is as good as it gets.