Recalling the day the door to the cage
was flung wide and a sky offered escape,
rising to physical feet optional
as well as meeting people on the streets.
Should a sour mood happen to invade,
a tale could still be built from a sparrow
whose history need not read factual.
Or maybe Whimsy was feeling spunky
enough to suggest we blast into space,
look for a friendly Neptunian moon;
keeping eyes peeled for their red light district,
the more immorality the better.
Jet back to the pad, help lines tell of it,
with assistance from a bottle of wine.
Surprise surprise, prudish pricks don’t approve.
Come to Timmy 