It is in the shape of my tattered soul
It is the only thing I play well
For it sings my praise
It rings low
And its lyric is loud and clear
I need you e-flat
To sing praise of this dull morning.
Morning has broken
Like the first morning
Blackbirds are crying out in smoke
Praise for the children
Of the wet garden
Young and restless
In their new running outfits
It is a morning in a-minor.
A large dark series of cries
Woven into a single crochet of harmonica.
- A- Harmonica
My computer sets you out against a bullet point.
I like you too.
We can get coffee sometime.