Eureka, eureka! At last she knows.
the candle she holds is burning her soul
so she huffs and puffs to blow it right out
but magic, oh, magic, that candle, you know,
goes out for a time then lights up again.
And so to Plan “B” she makes all haste
but the pages are blank in her journal of schemes
and she knows, she does, to not ever dream,
so what, oh, what, is a gypsy to do?
She ponders and ponders the question at length
till finally, yes, she’ll tie up her mind
and pull and pull with all of her might
until time suffocates and everything dies.
But time, the devil, keeps marching on
so off to Plan “C” she makes her way
but the path is littered with sticks and stones
which don’t hurt soul as everyone knows.
Slowly, slowly, but gypsies must rest
and always, of course, hope for the best
but indeed she is most fearful to tread
on all those dastardly sticks and stones.
One day, one day, she’ll fly overhead
when mind is released and everything’s dead!