There's a bass pluckin' orange juice from the carton somewhere beyond the cotton,
And the farm below, readies the bow to the audience in the sun--
Johnny, from a peer outside a window places the kaleidoscope to his ear, listing for birds among the hedgerow while mother, pulls back the empty sheet from a piano, beginning to play New Orleans themes on the piece--
And I wonder why a magenta thunderbird rusts under the sun and rain, and why the man in the bowler hat steals persimmon trees during the winter solstice.

And there's she with her watermelon smile and daisy in her brow, brown hair swishes in the wind, a dress unzipped like coconut cream sunsets attracts my sight and I lay below the clouds while the silhouettes roll over our bodies--
And the orange-juice man clocks out around 6pm while sun is low in the sky.
Clouds steam on like a ship towards the milkin' moon; she exhales and I take it she's happy to be home.