He's out in the woods with his squirrel gun
To try to recapture his anger
He's screaming some words at the top of his lungs
Until he begins to feel younger
But back at his desk in the city we find
Our trembling punch-drunken fighter
Who can't find the strength now to punish the length
Of the ribbon in his little typewriter
[Chorus:]
Poor Fractured Atlas
Threw himself across the mattress
Waving his withering pencil
As if it were a pirate's cutlass
I'm almost certain he's trying to increase his burden
He said "That's how the child in me planned it
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