A random dots hovering in rounds.
Sole God knows what them moves makes,
And the force that them bounds,
Gathering them, and them rakes,
Upon the blue of the blue of the sky,
And above the white-blue of a day’s end.
So little does my silhouette among it eye.
What is it that makes me bend?
Rather than taking part in it all,
Among my black dots, like it do.
Forgetting what it be that God me call,
Tunneling, digging my gloom, like a shrew.
The blue of the Heavens, moves me not more,
But the dots, they don’t ask where th’re heading for.
