Too many pigeons and other such nods -
Such colour to an abstract thought,
The subtle smile that hangs upon a face,
Unannounced at its coming yet lingering as the furniture of the mind,

Funny pictures that we care to draw,
Place fingerprints on the edifice of wisdom,
Nestled in the grooves from ancient hands,
Bearing forth from before time's dawn.

Lighting up the stage with praise,
The room is wash in chromatic glows,
For all the praise and flashing lights,
We behold Him there our first delight.

A sleepyleb lounges,
Enchanted by the prospect of no more commutes,
And much less muchness.

The daily clamour is a racket three times more than not,
Its a great dance and parade,
Great fun and great games.

Nevertheless, after work comes great rest,
And after rest great fun.
It's the natural rhythm of things.