Well the cat's at the fiddle
and I'm in the middle
of polishing a hardwood tune.
I'm tapping the floor
though it's a quarter to four,
tapping my feet and my
long wooden spoon.
In patterns rune-like the moon's
shadow-hewn light begs me
to sleep. From the sill, she
calls to me, hush now, hush and
be still. But I'm chasing the beat
between the earth and my feet
and I'll rap and I'll tap and I'll
ratta-tat-tat til the sun replaces
the moon, with the cat and the
fiddle I'll unriddle this riddle,
with the beat of my feet
and my long wooden spoon.