It's five past three.
Sixty-four eyes look at me.
No. Sixty-two.
Not Matthew.
He hasn't learnt to read my face.
He's got digital. A disgrace!

Spring is baby,
bright, fresh and new,
gurgling with the melting snow,
singing with the first cuckoo.

The moon was married last night
and nobody saw,
dressed up in her ghostly dress
for the summer ball.

The space is a friend.
I tell it what hurts.

I tell it why I'm not good.
The space is a friend.
I tell it the bother I'm in.
It won't let me tell lies.