And this is the way they ringthe bells in Bedlamand this is the bell-ladywho comes each Tuesday morning to give us a music lessonand because the attendants make you goand because we mind by instinct,like bees caught in the wrong hive,we are the circle of crazy ladieswho sit in the lounge of the mental houseand smile at the smiling womanwho passes us each a bell,who points at my handthat holds my bell,
E flat,and this is the gray dress next to mewho grumbles as if it were specialto be old, to be old,and this is the small hunched squirrel girlon the other side of mewho picks at the hairs over her lip,who picks at the hairs over her lip all day,and this is how the bells really sound,as untroubled and cleanas a workable kitchen,and this is always my bell respondingto my hand that responds to the ladywho points at me,
E flat;and although we are not better for it,they tell you to go.
And you do.
