Little Twig isn’t big
To you, but she is
To me.
But however I don’t like it
When she makes faces.
And she seldom talks
When we go to places
And meet people
And sit around.
But she prances at dances
Gets crushes, takes chances
With boys. Wears a hat
No shoes, and they flatter her
Madly. What of that?
Neat, maroon, blue and white
Lace and chord, velvet. Might
Even keep her coat on if its right.
Next week
All change
To purple
Or black
Perhaps.

*Poema de Syd Barrett de 1965. Original em leilão.