|
Stacked near your bedside, books you've begun |
|
With dog eared good intention they're all suggested by someone |
|
Colorful little fictions about animals on parade |
|
The lions and crows have unionized and they're marching for wage |
|
Andrew became a wanderer |
|
Stalked by the bloody hunter |
|
And rest for him it was foretold, in a city whose streets are paved with gold |
|
The great big depression, machines have won the war |
|
The fallow soil, the market crash, and the motor oil |
|
The boy flies off westward on star spangled wings |
|
And brings back the dawn over the eastern seas |
|
Andrew became a wanderer |
|
Stalked by the bloody hunter |
|
And rest for him it was foretold, in a city whose streets are paved with gold |
|
Written on the spine of every holy lowly man, woman, creature and child |
|
A love letter in kind |