Soul-Writer's Birthday

While riding on a donkey with a bright golden mane
I saw a prima donna who was acting quite insane
Calling out for all to hear a name that made no sense
While holding up for all to see a broken circus tent

It was soul writer’s birthday
On the twenty-fifth of June

I saw brightly colored neon lights trickle through his hair
Casting weirdly shaped shadows here, there, and everywhere
Leading little children to the park, watching out for rain
Telling fairytales and preaching love, amongst some other things

It was soul writer’s birthday
On the twenty-fifth of June
It was soul writer’s birthday
On the twenty-fifth of June

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He’s living in a canyon house with cats and whirlybirds
Strung out behind incredible, as his favorite word
Looking down and growing up with one eye partly blind
Eating chocolate covered grass and loving porcupines

It was soul writer’s birthday
On the twenty-fifth of June
It was soul writer’s birthday
On the twenty-fifth of June

Soul writer’s birthday
Soul writer’s birthday

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