Sixty-Four Square Miles of Elbow Room

I walk all over my eight-mile-square neighborhood.
I guess that’s not too modest
to say. I know that all my walking does me good.

I don’t always eat as I should,
sometimes settling for a third daily repast,
but I walk all over my eight-mile-square neighborhood.

You’ll think it’s rather crude
of me to say this, but I’m a saved Baptist.
I know that the Lord’s Gospel does me good.

Bearing as I walk the Holy Rood
of Christ, chanting ŌM with the Rasta-
farian dude who owns this eight-mile-square neighborhood,

I’m at last able to see the good
in everyone, no matter their bad habits—
knowing that all my praying does me good,

that I just have to be a praying fool,
that’s all, that I can play the violin and boil some pasta,
that I can walk all over this eight-mile-square neighborhood,
that all my walking does me good.