the morning after the night the rest of his life began

he sits, and he ponders, and he writes
and he writes about sitting and pondering
he slips into the song she was singing
quietly thinking, quietly dreaming

perhaps he would just run away
wherever the wind might bring him
or simply stroll down the neighbourhood street
with a hop, and a skip, and a little dancing

as he thinks these things, he smiles
he smiles, for he does too much dreaming
still he sits, and he ponders, and he writes
and he writes about sitting and pondering