here’s the folk song, here’s the jazz song

i draw myself a spear
on a blank sheet of paper

and a bulls eye in the corner.
It's a spiral bound notebook,
and the page is ripped out.

all sorts of curley ring bound
paper tears...

I'm supposed to be writing
something that has this great
appearance of myself,
but that's all I have down.

I'm feeling old and spent
tonight. I'll wait for her to get home
and try to breathe something
new in.

Or maybe just hang about
and listen to the storm
gathering outside, the
evening's wide open.