Ten thin men sat on a long silver pin In a hat on a fat lady's head, A mockingbird swooped down and plucked the pin out And it's feared that all ten may be dead.
A colorful bird that leaves its perch To fly to distant lands unseen, unknown. Returns to sit upon the shoulders, Preen its plumage, rest its weary wings.
She kept her brain inside a jar Tucked safely away on a high shelf In the study, to be used only when needed. Which, for her, was not often. And so there it sat, just gathering dust, Not thinking about anything at all.
I planted an upside-down acorn. It sprouted an upside-down tree. In its roots, the birds nest In its branches, worms rest And it's all quite confounding to me.
Last week I plucked a star right from the sky. They didn't seem to be in short supply. I just dropped it in my pocket Where I promptly then forgot it And on laundry day it got a wash and dry.
Welcome to The Conservatory. My name is Winslow Smudge, and these are my thoughts laid bare. You have my permission to wander these grounds at your leisure - feel free to enjoy, ponder or mock (if you must). But please keep in mind that some of these thoughts are quite delicate, and all are very special to me.