Say, it’s tricky, quite tricky, isn’t it,
To talk to a squirrel or a rock or a tree
Or a painting by your favorite artist
And believe that somehow it can see
The heart of you that can bleed
And give you all that you desperately need?
Or maybe you talk to the farmer as he hoes
Or the doctor you pay two hundred by the hour
Or your friend who is trying on her clothes
Or the starry-eyed fan who brings you a flower
And say there’s a part of you that’s dying inside
A soul-crushing pain from which you can’t hide.
This Jolly Beggar 