Blackbird of Doire an Chairn, your voice is sweet;
I never heard on any height of the world music was
sweeter than your voice, and you at the foot of your nest

My Dear Lady Gregory:

As Maud and I drifted over the forbidden, bleak scapes
of New Yorkdom we heard an awful din The City's
High Street (Fifth Ave, as they a-call it)
was a-strewn with revellers, green hats askew,
arms and minds akimbo

We passed, passed by ... We drifted East
We sailed towards Some-Thing, Some-Where Else
We saw dolphins dancing in the milky, murky sea-loam
Gloaming in terrestrial-aquaceous mirth
Sailing - Sailing - News from No-Where

Oracular nothingness while a blathering, demented
Cowboy crooned deluded tunes, non-sense,
off-key and homely on His Lonesome Range.


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