Come to my table periodically
Gaze into the dust, drink of strong tea
Empty the soul, free the heart, mind the head
Crush down the demon and bury him dead
Said the wise man pinning the lie to the floor
Thirty-eight fifty-six make ninety-four
Pluto poor peasant, a planet no more
Thirty-eight fifty-six make ninety-four
Try tea? Mmmm, Yes. Don't mind if I do
Sixty cups dirty before we are through
Sixty cups dirty, we usually have one
Behold in its glory, a miniature sun
Strong tea and seed-bread, so much on your plate
Ninety-four makes fifty-six thirty-eight
Bury him, lest he come crashing your gate
Ninety-four makes fifty-six thirty-eight
When having tea with Bill
ReplyDeletePluto is truly disgraced.
Ninety-two is of the will,
to lead this mystery to be Aced.
So it seems your miniature sun
is not quite the same as the real one.
The ashes are cold, the dust spikes fleeting
The mess that was made gave souls a beating.
Seed-bread, a loaf, crumbs only remaining
Thirty-eight fifty-six are less than you thought.
Bury him! Bury him! The demon sustaining.
Thirty-eight fifty-six how well you have taught.