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She makes me want to eat my lessons up
like soup, sort the colours out,
lumps in the liquid,
meaning in the words.
I'm losing sleep, just to be with her,
with you.
I love you.

It's intellect I've got to sort,
a left and the right a bit,
thoughts that swim do stream a music;
a song; of which I cannot speak.
I don't even know its name.
(I mumble "cock your ear to that!" is all..)

So it's not auras, it's just colours dear.
The bus is optional.


Cor, march 2001