He's out in the woods with his squirrel gun. To try to recapture his anger. He's screaming some words at the top of his lungs. Until he begins to feel younger. But back at his desk in the city we find. Our trembling punch-drunken fighter. Who can't find the strength now to punish the length. Of the ribbon in his little typewriter. Poor fractured Atlas. Threw himself across the mattress. Waving his withering pencil as if it were a pirate's cutlass. I'm almost certain he's trying to increase his burden. He said "That's how the child in me planned it. A woman wouldn't understand it". I believe there was something that I wanted to say. Before I conclude this epistle. But you would forgive me for holding my tongue. 'Cause man made the blade and the pistol. Yes man made the waterfall and the dam. To temper his tantrum with magic. Now you can't be sure of that ten of azure. Since he punched a hole in the fabric. Poor fractured Atlas. Threw himself across the mattress. Waving his withering pencil as if it were a pirate's cutlass. I'm almost certain he's trying to increase his burden. He said "That's how the child in me planned it. A woman wouldn't understand it".