My head is filled to bursting with the sound
Of other people's words; none of my own
Are half so loud as those I didn't write.

She slid across the kitchen floor
And crashed into the oven door.

A one, a two, a three, a four, a five:
By this you know that I am still alive.
Sss...

I had a thing to say
'Twas about Labor Day
But now that I've forgot it
'Tis like I never thought it

The sun took one last swing at us then set
Behind the tree-capped hillside vineyard. So,
The cusp of autumn's itching for a fight.