I am at the bottom of the birdcage
Just laying in the grit
Feeling snug and warm
Coz I'm a piece of shit

I'm at the bottom of the birdcage
Why don't you come and sit
Not one person will bother us
Coz they can't handle it

I'm at the bottom of the birdcage
It's where I spend my time
Alone in my thought no pardons sought
Smoking reefer so sublime

I'm sitting in this birdcage
But what no-one can see
For growing in this birdcage
Is my own poet's tree

Beyond these days in time and space,
when we have run our pilgrim race.
our soul, set free from mortal shell,
will rest a while, (devoutly dwell)

to pause for peace by sacred streams,
with breaking dawn's delightful dreams…
Until that Lord with flashing eyes
invades this planet’s sin-scarred skies…

to clothe us in immortal gowns,
with gold, replace our thorny crowns.
(Our bodies, buried out of sight,
He'll raise, in wonder's wingless flight.)

Christmas Blues

A bucket of water has more purpose than I.
I live, I breathe, though with a heavy sigh.

What is it that I am doing here
On this great and godless sphere?

This grand fest of immortal pain,
Oh I, some poor soul's greatest bane

I might not wish to go and find Death's lair.
Seek him out high and low, here and there,

But, were he to call my name

As loudly and as boldly as his own,
I might scream back an answer

With a near zealous tone!
Were he to come for my head

Oh, look! My kite is flying high
A flag of freedom in the sky
A brave explorer sailing where
No other soul would dare to fare

I wonder, can it see me here
from heights of virgin stratosphere
I think perhaps I look so small
I'm barely visible at all

upon the sea, a dot of white
a fleck of paint to a flying kite

Oh, soaring kite, I hold your will
I'm happy, yet, I'm saddened, still
That I should keep you tethered so
I wonder should I let you go