| «isn't it strange,» said the inkwell
|
| «all that comes out of me!
|
| the famous lines! |
| the valentines!
|
| just think! |
| without an inkwell, where
|
| would the poet be?»
|
| «I'll make you change your mind,»
|
| said the pen, plucked from the tail
|
| of a bird
|
| «those famous lines, those valentines
|
| I wrote them, every word
|
| without a pen, never again would
|
| poetry be heard.»
|
| forget the inkwell and the pen
|
| when auntie toothache comes again
|
| the poet, saddest of all men
|
| can sing no more
|
| when auntie toothache starts her torture
|
| with her pliers and her lance and her fires
|
| she desires him to dance
|
| and so they dance, dance, dance, dance
|
| dance, dance, dance
|
| and auntie toothache wields her tongs
|
| and makes her poet sing her songs
|
| in screams and whimpers, till he longs
|
| to die right now
|
| then auntie toothache makes him vow
|
| (with one more cup of fire ants)
|
| that he’ll give up poetry and take up dance
|
| and so they dance, dance, dance, dance
|
| dance, dance, dance
|
| he never writes another line
|
| his life becomes a valentine
|
| to auntie toothache and her fine
|
| degress of pain
|
| from lack of sleep he goes insane
|
| and fancies he’s the king of france
|
| beset by bees
|
| auntie toothache whispers, «dance!»
|
| and so they dance, dance, dance, dance
|
| dance, dance, dance
|
| and they dance, dance, dance, dance
|
| dance, dance, dance |