There was this sweet little guy once, munching a bush:
He was shy around people so he ran for the woods.
Unlike this creature here who thinks he’s a wolf:
But sort of like this one, only not wearing boots.
More with it than I am, that might be the truth:
Because I wrote in my notebook how the sky is a roof.
Or an ocean where wind gives white sail-ships a push
And how I sat on the floor of a sea on my tush.
My kids gone to the beach must turn my brain into mush,
Cause there’s nothing to write, but about this moose and a bush.