Green pastures of mist and misery
Take us to the mountain bare and cold.
Lambs ask for everything without words
I sit and gaze at the same pile of stones
This is the shepherd phase and sheep are idiots
I pull those sheep over cliffs and I write tunes in my head
That will never be as good as they are in my head
And the pastures turn yellow corn joy fields
Let us sing a song for every dead person no one will remember
Let us praise the repetitive flowers.
No comments:
Post a Comment