The wind is blowing in the trees,
the sky is dark and gray;
The lions here are ill at ease,
and loath to stay that way.
There is a restlessness outside,
a fathom deep, a mile wide —
the minions of anxiety.
Our fav’rite books have all been read,
they’re back up on the shelf;
The lion wants another song
that he can sing himself.
There is, without, another storm,
(inside these walls, those are the norm)
our anxiousness should be confessed,
we anxious minions of the soon-to-go