Dreams for a heavy soul

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.



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