"isn’t it strange," said the inkwell
"all that comes out of me!
the famous lines! the valentines!
just think! without an inkwell, where
would the poet be?"
"I’ll make you change your mind,"
said the pen, plucked from the tail
of a bird
"those famous lines, those valentines
I wrote them, every word
without a pen, never again would
poetry be heard."
forget the inkwell and the pen
when auntie toothache comes again
the poet, saddest of all men
can sing no more
when auntie toothache starts her torture
with her pliers and her lance and her fires
she desires him to dance
and so they dance, dance, dance, dance
dance, dance, dance
and auntie toothache wields her tongs
and makes her poet sing her songs
in screams and whimpers, till he longs
to die right now
then auntie toothache makes him vow
(with one more cup of fire ants)
that he’ll give up poetry and take up dance
and so they dance, dance, dance, dance
dance, dance, dance
he never writes another line
his life becomes a valentine
to auntie toothache and her fine
degress of pain
from lack of sleep he goes insane
and fancies he’s the king of france
beset by bees
auntie toothache whispers, "dance!"
and so they dance, dance, dance, dance
dance, dance, dance
and they dance, dance, dance, dance
dance, dance, dance