Letra de Twitch
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There's a little squirrel dancing on the telephone wire. Were he a human boy, you'd just watch him though you'd know he'd retire in a quick trip and plummet. But the squirrel's got some balance. The squirrel's got his weight goin' for him. Yeah, the squirrel's got some balance up there on that wire.
The twitchy squirrel knows he's no need for repose, posed on his blue sky background. He's not coming back down, and though the line he runs sways, he spends all the day in mid-air. Why should he care?
As a grade-school boy, Trey wished he had a superpower. He never could conclude which one, and undecided in his final class hour, he would daydream away. He'd keep the power a secret; he didn't care if it was circumstantial 'cause he'd just keep it a secret. No need for him to cause a fuss.
It wouldn't be planned, but some twitch of his hand would so slightly alter the playground and turn it just a bit 'round, so nobody could tell. When the recess bell would ring, they'd empty outside to run in the afternoon sun. He'd stop to admire his work, the rest of those jerks oblivious to the fact that although inexact, Trey had lifted and looped like a ringlet, reversing the swingset.
In a little while this all will be going away, whether tree or stone, velvet or brown macrame, every placecloth and tea set. But I've relieved my attachment, and now I won't get too sentimental since I've relieved my attachment to all these things I never really owned.
This studio apartment is Trey's. I've wasted the day at the window watching the squirrels go back and forth like a shot. They seem to do that a lot. I wish I had their energy â and their poise, their speed without noise, their lack of unfulfilled dreams, their simple-minded schemes and, though the old unsightly wind blows me slightly, some kind of guide to upright me.
The twitchy squirrel knows he's no need for repose, posed on his blue sky background. He's not coming back down, and though the line he runs sways, he spends all the day in mid-air. Why should he care?
As a grade-school boy, Trey wished he had a superpower. He never could conclude which one, and undecided in his final class hour, he would daydream away. He'd keep the power a secret; he didn't care if it was circumstantial 'cause he'd just keep it a secret. No need for him to cause a fuss.
It wouldn't be planned, but some twitch of his hand would so slightly alter the playground and turn it just a bit 'round, so nobody could tell. When the recess bell would ring, they'd empty outside to run in the afternoon sun. He'd stop to admire his work, the rest of those jerks oblivious to the fact that although inexact, Trey had lifted and looped like a ringlet, reversing the swingset.
In a little while this all will be going away, whether tree or stone, velvet or brown macrame, every placecloth and tea set. But I've relieved my attachment, and now I won't get too sentimental since I've relieved my attachment to all these things I never really owned.
This studio apartment is Trey's. I've wasted the day at the window watching the squirrels go back and forth like a shot. They seem to do that a lot. I wish I had their energy â and their poise, their speed without noise, their lack of unfulfilled dreams, their simple-minded schemes and, though the old unsightly wind blows me slightly, some kind of guide to upright me.
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