Old Daisy thinks the day breaks in the night,
wakes singing and waits for the blinds to lift
and the show to begin. I guess night-time’s a gift
of riches: police lights in the street, a fox fight,
the flickering stars. Old Daisy-Face sings louder,
his hot little hands in the air – thinks he’s stopping
the moon from falling down, a pale ball bopping
from hands to head, that big moon-keepy-upper.
Me and his daddy slog the long night through.
We sing, we pace, we rock and roll mad Daisy,
we try to feed him quiet. But that old crazy
just shuts his petals when he’s ready to –
then it’s show over, done, whole face sealed tight
and turned away to shun the morning light.