shove over, whitman. there's a new lyricist in town

recently after having been spurned by a little lady at school, one of my short men left these scribbles on a scrap of paper in the homework stack:


i sing to the sky
i sing to the sun
i sing to the moon
would you ever want me to brak your hart!


expressive men = rarae aves. she does not know what she's missing.