A Wicker Basket

 Comes the time when it's later
and onto your table the headwaiter
puts the bill, and very soon after
rings out the sound of lively laughter--

Picking up change, hands like a walrus,
and a face like a barndoor's,
and a head without any apparent size,
nothing but two eyes--

So that's you, man,
or me.
 I make it as I can,
I pick up, I go
faster than they know--

Out the door, the street like a night,
any night, and no one in sight,
but then, well, there she is,
old friend Liz--

And she opens the door of her cadillac,
I step in back,
and we're gone.

She turns me on--

There are very huge stars, man, in the sky,
and from somewhere very far off someone hands
 me a slice of apple pie,
with a gob of white, white ice cream on top of it,
and I eat it--

Slowly.
 And while certainly
they are laughing at me, and all around me is racket
of these cats not making it, I make it

in my wicker basket.

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