Raindrops wearing tap shoes,
upon my tin roof drop,
practicing their repartee,
tap tap tapping ,just for me,
thus wakening me up.

Their stage...?
A morn in winter.
Their score...?
Written by God,
and all the dancers enter
each one 'The Star' there of.

First a little solo spot,
then a duet falls,
then the chorus line
in time
crashing down their all.

Inside my bedroom theater,
underneath my sheet,
blankets snug around me,
I hear their busy feet.

The backdrop is the dawning sky
the lights the morning star,
tapping naked on the tin,
(tap shoes ONLY they're wearing!)
clear blue dancers... tumbling,
outdone,each one, so far.

Heavy shoes upon wet feet
tin sounds steel-hard as they beat
comforting these ears they meet
this tiny house
in lofty street
where heartbeats,clapping,are.

Upon the tin roof tapping
eagerly feet fall
millions of them rapping
toward a curtain call.

Snuggled up I beg for ' more,'
but their dance is done,
and I must lie here spellbound
by ....
each

single

one.