More and more marbles are being lost.
They roll from the ears of an old man
And down the drain in the basement.
That’s where the old man’s cot is kept,
Because he does not speak our tongue.
Our language is marbles. He can hear
Us, but chooses not to communicate.
Except, of course, when he catches
One of the marbles. He is so old and frail,
Yet his little manifestoes welt the skin
Like the lashes a switch can inflect.
Look at him there, sleepy-eyed and losing
His marbles as we sing him a lullaby.