I am beautiful, I don’t need to sing.
I don’t need to practice notes, harmonies, or words.
I am beautiful. I exist, like the birds.
I am beautiful. I never listen to the owner of the store.
Owners aren’t necessary. The customer wants more.
It drives my lover crazy—she sees me lying around,
And I’m really not doing anything.
Maybe, in my silent mind, I’ll find a beautiful sound;
Dreaming, I’ll find an eye of fire, and, with its tip on fire, a beautiful wing.
My invention will die. She will plunge to the ground.
She doesn’t exist for any other thing.
She will fall with a beautiful sound.
A million souls find her, while I’m sleeping.
Some pay me cash. A few of them are weeping.