Everyone is in boxes,
Little boxes.
They're made of ticky tacky and they're candy bright but they won't
Last in wind, nor do they stand through nights full of
Rain.
Tremulous ticky tacky,
Cave in, snap out.
I'm wandering this hillside heaped high with little boxes,
I'm lost in them, they make good seats for day-long tea parties with just one guest
And they're always new with their shades and hue but
I'm still looking for the spot where the music comes from, for wind is so tricky in this world of grass and the rain pounds the place out of existence (it's easy when the world is so very little and so ticky tacky) and then grows it back exponentially more twisted and green, greener than before-
And I've come to know
That the hill, it is permanent
But music moves.
