I’m busy working,
on this and that and other,
which is drinking tea.
I am writing books,
notebooks of course but there’s more,
I’m writing a book.
We are moving now,
it took some time, but we’re off,
and no stopping us.
Crowds are crowding in,
and in no time, a full train,
with just standing room.
The writing’s scrawling,
with hurried scribbled verses,
much larger than life.
The words creep along,
not quite a book or a song,
slowly getting there.
Sometimes in the night,
there will come an urge to write,
that I will seize on.
