All that is left in my head,
Is this stream of song,
This endless melody.
There are shadowy words which cannot be said
Unless they are part of the liturgy,
The meaningless chant I repeat all day long,
And the songs are from somebody's childhood,
Though I'm not really sure it was mine.
They sometimes seem rude, sometimes silly,
And sometimes they're wobbly and wrong.
But most have an inherent structure
And exist in a world of their own,
And once I begin them, I sing them
And feel that I'm not quite alone,
As if there's a woman inside me,
That wishes to maintain some order
Who bustles about and trots these things out
Always wanting someone to applaud her.
There are only daft songs in my head
And sometimes I sing them in bed
And wake up the others, who scream.
And the tunes are so pretty
The words are so witty,
I sometimes believe it's a dream.
But the night nurse bursts in and makes nightmares,
And the songs become sorrowful sobbing,
And the tunes become minor, descending
Into treacle black fear, never ending,
That I am quite mad and I'm dying;
And my mind won't come right,
Till my crying,
Turns once again into singing.