I am not perfect, and, believe me, I know it.
Added to which, well. . . I’m a poet.,
Which means I’m more often broke than my brother.
But still, I have a good sense of the absurd,
And the house was left to me by my mother,
And a stream runs through the bottom of the garden,
And I am always, always, as good as my word,
Never petty, slow to anger—swift to pardon,
And more than once I’ve been told I’m good in bed,
(Well, goodish, anyway). And I keep bees,
So there is always plenty of honey,
And I can lay hedges and I can prune trees,
And I can make things with my hands, put up shelves,
Do basic plumbing. I’m loving. Who needs money?
I have a full set of tools in my shed.
I’ll build you a kiln and you can make pottery,
Come and live with me. Let’s explore ourselves.
You’re laughing at me, but life’s a lottery.
And I know you’re lonely. And you don’t know why.
Come live with me, baby. Give it a try.