You shall know how,
To find the pink round.
It is there in the valley of the guitars.
Lift up the guitars,
And find the keys.
Play it well.
Play it well.
Play it well.
Play it well.
And then, when the round is played, I shall join you. It shall go round and round and round and round and round and someone else shall join us and then it shall go round and round and round and in the pink and the round shall be in the pink and the Stacatto sound of it shall echo in the round in the pink round and round and round and round and round.
With a plectrum,
You shall play all the different notes,
Of the pink round.
With your fingers.
Pick out the gentle jelly of me,
Take joy in the chords,
The trembling frets.
Wake up,
Wake up,
And the curve of maple,
The truth inside echoing sound.
Round and round and round in the pink round round round and round again. Another joins us. It is the milk pudding of sharing. It is the soft cinnamon of rumps. Of papery skin, soft to touch. She is here.
Realise your seeds.
Add cream.
Tarts, piping hot.
Toffee-like you play to me,
In the pink round.
Volatile lumps,
Gaps with slice-knives,
Milky mess,
With a spoon of simmer.
I boil over.
