text: Sunday morning, very bright, I read Your book by colored light
  That came in through the pretty window picture
  I visited some houses where they said that You were living
  And they talked a lot about You
  And they spoke about Your giving
  They passed a basket with some envelopes;
  I just had time to write a note
  And all it said was I believe in You.
  Passing conversations where they mentioned Your existence
  And the fact that You had been replaced by Your assistants
  The discussion was theology
  And when they smiled and turned to me
  All that I could say was I believe in You.
  I visited Your house again on Christmas or Thanksgiving
  And a balded man said You were dead
  But the house would go on living
  He recited poetry and as he saw me stand to leave
  He shook his head and said Id never find You
  My mother used to dress me up
  And while my dad was sleeping
  We would walk down to Your house without speaking