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(Brooker / Fisher / Reid) |
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For you (whose eyes were opened wide whilst mine refused to see) |
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I'm sore in need of saving grace. |
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Be kind and humour me |
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I'm lost amidst a sea of wheat where people speak but seldom meet |
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And grief and laughter, strange but true |
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Although they die, they seldom cry |
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An ode by any other name |
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I know might read more sweet |
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Perhaps the sun will never shine upon my field of wheat |
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But still in closing, let me say for those too sick, too sick to see though nothing shows, yes, someone knows |
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I wish that one was me |
