When Will My Life Begin?

Seven a.

m., the usual morning lineup.

Start on the chores, sweep 'til the floor's all clean.

Polish and wax, do laundry, mop and shineup.

Sweep again, and by then it's,

like, seven fifteen.

And so I'll read a book,

or maybe two or three;

I'll add a few more paintings to my gallery;

I'll play guitar, and knit, and cook and basic'ly just wonder,

"When will my life begin?"

Then after lunch, it's puzzles, darts and baking,

paper maché, bit of ballet and chess,

pottery, ventriloquy, candlemaking, then I'll stretch,

maybe sketch, take a climb, sew a dress.

And I'll reread the books, if I have time to spare.

I'll paint the walls some more;

I'm sure there's room somewhere.

And then I'll brush, and brush,

and brush, and brush my hair.

Stuck in the same place I've always been.

To morrow night the lights will appear,

just like they do on my birthday each year.

What is it like out there where they glow?

Now that I'm older,

Mother might just let me go...