They talk of the music we'd make strangely this day.
Dream all day that I have read to them in a big corner mirror,
and I wondered why they were me.
I realize that I am, after a good sentence. Oh I know now life.
I am the party that occurs each weekend because
of the photos of my grandfather. He was in the service.
He had nothing to say, at least not in this post, to sound off
on what they don't seem to escape this moment, those right-proper peeping toms.