Underneath my outside face There's a face that none can see. A little less smiley, A little less sure, But a whole lot more like me.

Ricky was "L" but he's home with the flu, Lizzie, our "O," had some homework to do, Mitchell, "E" prob'ly got lost on the way, So I'm all of the love that could make it today.

It's always a nice feeling, having people think that you feel things much deeper than you're allowed to say, but this isn't true. If you want to find out what a writer or a cartoonist really feels, look at his work. That's enough.

Underneath my outside face There's a face that none can see. A little less smiley, A little less sure, But a whole lot more like me.

Once I spoke the language of the flowers, Once I understood each word the caterpillar said, Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings, And shared a conversation with the housefly in my bed. Once I heard and answered all the questions of the crickets, And joined the crying of each falling dying flake of snow, Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . . How did it go? How did it go?

Although I cannot see your face As you flip these poems awhile, Somewhere from some far-off place I hear you laughing--and I smile.

My beard grows down to my toes, I never wears no clothes, I wraps my hair Around my bare, And down the road I goes.