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 —
            and we
            must be
    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)
            but lest
            we rest
    our anxiousness should be confessed,

            we know
            just so:
    we anxious minions of the soon-to-go