A shame to waste this night on sleep.
There are more than promises to keep.
This special night I take
though breakfast be a wooden stake.
For fearing to tread are angels bred.
How many can dance upon a pin
depends on what you stick it in.
I’d love to walk a country mile.
I’ve been inside imagining
I’d feast on miles and mushrooms.
I will come out this spring.
482 ®Copyright 1976 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.