When someone preaches culture, as scientifically as horticulture, Just stand up and let them know, enough of this farcical show, That you already have yours, and the rest of them, have theirs, Music comes about, as much from common sound,
The fish are very angry, and wish the sun would finally stop, Robbing their already depleted river, drop by evaporating drop, They know not, why their water, is vanishing with a shroud, And then sun cannot tell them, it is
The eyes are moist, but I know they do not for anything weep, Just that, imprinted images are the hardest memories to keep, You let them flow away believing there will be something new, But there isn’t anything new, you
I was hitchhiking my way, when the samaritan came along, I smiled at him, seeing no harm in walking as a throng, Only on seeing lonely wayfarers dying, did the thought finally occur, On how every fellow traveller was company