Nothing to do, nothing to do
Shall I write a poem for you?
You asked me for one
Sometime ago
But did you mean it?
I really don’t know.

Nothing to say, nothing to say
I’ve yet to see the horizon today
I’ve stared at the ceiling
I’ve slept on the floor
And more than once I
Considered the door

But it was too far away, too far away
And then the night came to swallow the day
I set down my pen
Still filled with ink
Words will arrive
Tomorrow, I think