Pozo negro (exquisite corpse)

There was a way down the hole
They chose the left one (Oh, the left one!)
Now we sing the song:
Thinking stones, sinking stones,
blinking stones, ringing stones.
Lest we climb the wrong hill
We surfed down, down, down
Now we sing the song:
Thinking stones, sinking stones,
blinking stones, ringing stones.
Now they dwell on the past
A fancy mirror repeating the hours
“Back to the bottom”, they yelled
The man was half naked.
Everyone said: “He knows.”
“Heed His warning”, they repeated
He said: “Life is a feather.”
Over.



Over.