Across the page my pencil goes,
Never fast and often slows,
So sundry strands of stories I try to unravel,
As a hundred men
make such a din
I cannot control the rabble.
So many people with different faces,
hurrying from so many places,
I cannot begin to keep them in check,
they will not stand still
for good or for ill,
And turn my tale to a wreck
I vainly attempt to take control
Yet suddenly go down a rabbit hole.
And find to my horror the farther I fall,
that up has gone down,
and spun me around
and sense has gone out of it all.
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