Frolicking I wish I were
until the end of time.
Instead here I lay
head-high in muck and grime.
A song I hope will stir
these limbs of lead,
ere my heart deny
the volition of my head.
How does a man become a boy
and fist a pile of hay
skip in a field of blooming flowers
or whistle to the jay.
The shovel lay in wait
and I must surely pay.
The Bird's Song 