He has a maraca he likes to shake
And a blanket made of dust.
On bright days I wonder what he does there,
I even consider asking him;
His answer is but a monkeyish laugh
He shakes his maraca at me, mocking my thoughts,
Grins at me, with a smile that misses five teeth.
Then he jumps in joy, cries out, leaps away
He climbs my logic and chips a few pieces
And with them he decorates his house
which he built in my inspiration.
When night falls he tends to rummage
Through the drawers of my mind,
Poking this and poking that.
He never sits still, always playing his game.
Sometimes though he disappears
Into darker corners unheard of.
But upon his return he has found
So much and all of it he will, undoubtedly,
Fill up the shelves of his house with.
When did he come to be, I wonder.
What is he doing in my mind, pray tell!
For how much longer will this baboon taunt me?
I have a monkey inside me you see,
Maybe he's the reason I never sit still,
The reason I grin my wild grin!
Whoever he is he will stay, I'm sure.
If I would ask him to leave he'd laugh
and with a crayon he found would write: