THE SWINGING STAIR
From the flotsam of a city street we built the Swinging Stair,
And latitude, or longitude, the least of all our care.
A tilting board—an orange crate—the sparrows screamed with glee,
As we swung to port and starboard like a lugger on the sea.
We cruised without a compass, but with merchandise of worth,
To barter pins and needles at the portals of the Earth.
The helmsman was my hero brave, his hair as red could be;