The tactful cactus by your window
|
Surveys the prairie of your room
|
The mobile spins to its collision
|
Clara puts her head between her paws
|
They've opened shops down West side
|
Will all the cacti find a home
|
But the key to the city
|
Is in the sun that pins
|
the branches to the sky
|
|
-----------------
|
Eight Line Poem
|
| David Bowie |
