when me, myself, and I ceases to please?
It’ll be time to go home.
It’ll be time to go home.
Like that woman in the W.C.
Williams poem
who says she’s tired of the trees.
Will the day ever come
who says she’s tired of the trees.
Will the day ever come
when I’m weary of all the tunes
I hum,
like a dog sick of its fleas?
It’ll be time to go home,
like a dog sick of its fleas?
It’ll be time to go home,
return back from wherever I did
roam,
choose my seat and take my ease.
Will the day ever come
choose my seat and take my ease.
Will the day ever come
when I spit out the pone,
like Byron before the Battle of Missolonghi?
It’ll be time to go home
like Byron before the Battle of Missolonghi?
It’ll be time to go home
to my new cell in God’s
honeycomb,
like Stevenson home from the sea.
When that day comes,
I’ll be glad to go home.
like Stevenson home from the sea.
When that day comes,
I’ll be glad to go home.
