He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.
He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.
His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.

Forest could keep secrets
Forest could keep secrets

Little toad little toad mind yourself
mind yourself let me plant my corn
plant my corn to feed my horse
feed my horse to run my race – the sea is full of more than I know

Spices and gold once cast a spell
On bearded men in caravels.

New World New World cried history
Old World Old World sighed every tree.

I’ve got the 
Teach-them-in-the-morning-
Playground-duty-
Teach-them-in-the-afternoon blues.
My head’s like a drum;
My feet, cold and sore.
I’m feeling so glum;

In the beginning was the word
and the word is ours:

the names of places,
the names of flowers,
the name of names,
words are ours.