The rain pounds on the sidewalk,
my heart pounds with it,
like a beating drum in
South Africa,
and a butterfly flaps it's wings,
flying by the drummers and singers,
going north to unrest and to
all the violence,
and then the butterfly will settle down in a bed and
make love to a squirell and
they will have babies in a tree,
then the squirell will go to Europe,
tour the Eiffell tower,
and make love to a lady bug,
they have babies on a flower,
then the lady bug will go to China,
see the Great Wall,
make love to a silk worm,
they have babies wherever little silk worms go.
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