As the other rises.
They wave as they pass,
as busdrivers do.
As the other rises.
They wave as they pass,
as busdrivers do.
And people climb inside.
They drink a cup of cloudy soup
and watch the pies go by.
A carrot.
Deep in the ground.
It went the other way.
Not the plucky way to the table,
but its own way, down the Solomon
and up the Ganges.
I didn’t like,
Boston Baked Beans.
The man, he couldn’t help
I didn’t like
those beans.
Thy quaking tree —
Thy bells of consecration