he clumps on the road and squeaks on the step and whooshes when he swings
he whispers in the dark, while he gurgles in the bath and then rustles with his towel
putt putt behind the mower, dreaming that he's flying and is who-ing like an owl.
Soon they came in a big white truck with every good intention
they took his temperature, fed him pills, and not to mention
threw Simon in a rubber room and tied him up and played Shubert through the speakers
doctors stretched him on a couch and asked him questions as he sipped on stuff from beakers.
And all the while he forced a smile on his creaking lips
he recounted happy days happy times and seldom dismal dips
his playmates were accountable, his mother was his rock
good ol' dad tossed the ball, his puppy pulled the sock.
Physicians took his blood, while dentists cleaned his teeth
he took a step without a clunk, they presented him a wreath!
Now Simon goes on quietly without a whir or click
to look at him he looks all right, you'd never guess he's sick
But in his head inside that skull amid the dark grey matter
he beeps and clucks and bops and slaps just like that old Mad Hatter.
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