|
He's out in the woods with his squirrel gun |
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To try to recapture his anger |
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He's screaming some words at the top of his lungs |
|
Until he begins to feel younger |
|
But back at his desk in the city we find |
|
Our trembling punch-drunken fighter |
|
Who can't find the strength now to punish the length |
|
Of the ribbon in his little typewriter |
|
Poor fractured Atlas |
|
Threw himself across the mattress |
|
Waving his withering pencil as if it were a pirate's cutlass |
|
I'm almost certain he's trying to increase his burden |
|
He said "That's how the child in me planned it |
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A woman wouldn't understand it" |
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I believe there was something that I wanted to say |
|
Before I conclude this epistle |
|
But you would forgive me for holding my tongue |
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'Cause man made the blade and the pistol |
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Yes man made the waterfall over the dam |
|
To temper his tantrum with magic |
|
Now you can't be sure of that tent of azure |
|
Since he punched a hole in the fabric |
|
Poor fractured Atlas |
|
Threw himself across the mattress |
|
Waving his withering pencil as if it were a pirate's cutlass |
|
I'm almost certain he's trying to increase his burden |
|
He said "That's how the child in me planned it |
|
A woman wouldn't understand it" |
