That old permed and wrinkled hair
Wet on a wet old Sunday afternoon
That boldly disconnected playful hair
Deftly weaves, wefts, and poses
To hide behind the sufferer’s gloom

That old iron-clad coal fire
Crackling, fizzling, bristling
On a stacked-up dubious afternoon
That old slow-breathing coal fire
Slightly seething, even unbelieving
Seeks out the cloud-willed moon

That old worn-away, torn day carpet
Bare, thread-less, no need to broom
Dreadful, pained, wasteful afternoon
That old worn, shorn, blue carpet
Once interwoven with dreams
In this, the cold, cared-less room

Absolutely nothing, no thing
Nothing to think, or to do
On a nothing, no thought afternoon
That old absolutely no thing
Corrupting ambiance’s silent call
Dividing a nation unable to zoom
Stop, loping; all together, so soon

That old splattered paint pot
Latter day’s blues and gold’s
A painter’s painting afternoon
That old paint pot of porcelain
Gleaming thus then seeming
As bright as your eyes illume

That old rickety-rackety red pen
Worlds determine to unfold
Rolled in by the wistful afternoon
That old tic-tac-toe red pen
Groping then unbelievably hoping
That with sufficient swaying
Joints, with slow slow swoons
Our minds may sway the tune