I heard, could be, a Hey there from the wing,

and I went on: Miss Bessie soundin good

that one, that night of all,

I feelin fari myself, taxes & things

seem to be back in line, like everybody should

and nobody in the snow on call

so, as I say, the house is given hell

to Yellow Dog, I blowin like it too

and Bessie always do

when she make a very big sound—after, well,

no sound—I see she totterin—I cross which stage

even at Henry’s age

in 2-3 seconds: then we wait and see.

I hear strange horns, Pinetop he hit some chords,

Charlie start Empty Bed,

they all come hangin Christmas on some tree

after trees thrown out—sick-house’s white birds’,

black to the birds instead.