There

I walked alone, a dark road
I knew not where to go
A lady met me as I trudged and asked,
“Why do you go so slow?”

Well I replied, with a mournful sigh,
“Sometimes the bird must fly”
Well she looked at me with a quizzical air
Then she turned into a chair

And so I sat, asleep in a flash and dreamt that
I was there
(There, that magical mystery place,
where the sky is sound and people are free and full of grace)

I met a man all covered with sand
But with still a quite pleasing air
Who asked, “Do you like our weather so fair?”

I looked round—and—as far
as my poor eye could see
The only thing solid was me!

 

©Curt Larson

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