| I went into a sort of house And watched some sort of wheels go round, They were the hugest kind of wheels And made a pleasant sort of sound. It was a gayly lighted place With many windows near the top, The wheels kept going round and round, It didn't seem they'd ever stop. It was the strangest sort of house All full of numbers set in glass And thoughtful men all dressed in blue And shining dials and things of brass. I walked up to a man in blue, I stopped the man in blue and said, What makes the shining wheels go round? The fellow shook his snowy head: What makes the shining wheels go round? I asked the oldest man in blue; He took a peice of chalk he had And wrote a number bright and new. He brought a little book he had, He took the book and in it read, What makes the shining wheel go round? The Wheelgorounding one is dead. The Wheelgorounding one is dead? I took the little book and Oh I found myself all dressed in blue And as I looked my hair turned snow. -Robert Clairmont |
| The Wheelgoround |
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| Poetry- (alphabetical order by last name of author) |
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