Sir, I was singing at myself as a way to break the pace of work. A noon song it was you overheard, not whispered words to you. True, I was never good at carrying a tune and ideas fly by me like crows in a murder of anything laughable, anything giddy. Sir, lurking in the shadows, the noise you object to isn't a whimper neither a psalm. It's only a ditty aimed like the barrel of a pistol at my own merry heart.
Off Key.
Esteve, Jean
Sir, I was singing at myself as a way to break the pace of work. A noon song it was you overheard, not whispered words to you. True, I was never good at carrying a tune and ideas fly by me like crows in a murder of anything laughable, anything giddy. Sir, lurking in the shadows, the noise you object to isn't a whimper neither a psalm. It's only a ditty aimed like the barrel of a pistol at my own merry heart.