a waterfall, your hair
while the world burns outside
while maniacs exchange threats
across continents and oceans
I think of the laughter
I think of your wild eyes
a voice accuses me of poetry
and with a bow, I comply
poetry it is
in the time of war
in the time of gleaming swords
bombs to wipe out the world
poetry it is, my good sir
you haven’t seen I presume
how her hair is like a waterfall
and she hasn’t looked at you
with laughter in her eyes
or you would have seen poetry
as I can see her now
how can I be anxious about madmen
when a woman has taken me down
Story Of The Footloose 