and how the fingers itch
to run away
with these thoughts and presentiments.
What a wondered world this is
where even the flowers sing
(though every rose, it's told
must have it's thorn).
I am lost with this growing self
that is this and that and the other
and suspiciously smally me.
They call her by my name
and say how she has grown,
how lovely she has become.
I am unknown
bewildered in this wilderness
by how tame it seems to be
but everything (oh everything)
has it's teeth.
And so the flowers sing
waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda
oh matilda waltzing home.
I want to wander home.
Will someone walk
with me through this land
where the flora snarl
and I am slowly sure that something
is becoming someone
somewhat like me
which leaves?
And the flowers sing
and they tell me,
It's a mad world, a mad world,
and I know, I know.
What a clever ambush
to build in these words a
wonderland...
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