From whence we came and unto where we go
A silent and soft, rocky river shall flow
I wish for good and good people wish this for all
But I would have been rude to reject the call
If I falter and if I fall flat on my ode-racked and silly old face
Then I shall be muddy ridden, with a nose cracked to be without filial grace
If I can only paint a picture in words, because my hands do so shake
Then this picture I paint, and it is a picture that I cannot fake
To me, Eden is a house in a dim shadow of a great mountain
With verdant, virile grasses. water pouring ex saxa: a Trevi fountain
But I cannot always have all that I want,
And despite what I covet, hitherto, there is no such font
So I writhe and I squirm and I make myself move
But not much moving does the moving do
I can wish and wish, and I pray and pray
God hears it all, but it is all in vain.
I am a Sod, small and sometimes a miser as such
But I pray to God, and say “no” when asked “is this here as much?”