We always find our song in noise said Millwheel to the geese. Your songs are futile said the Shotgun Man, you're grinding's obsolete. Press lightly on the spacebar, Son, before the moon grows dark, and kids in leather-coated cars tune mufflers in the park. Said Vacuum to the symphony, why can't I turn you off? Don't come in here—I'd swallow you and all your German talk. My brother grinds his teeth at night and dreams of tin cans chasing wedding cars. Now sirens fill my inner ear; jets skim the maple trees. The garbage man's sweet murmurings encourage me to song. Robert Paul. staying home from school ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html