My head is shot full of tiny arrows, The tribesmen must be hungry. I'll stumble, bumble and fall my way to The bottom of the valley. Hopefully I'll land in a patch of moss; I wouldn't want to get bruised. A pity, though, everything is so green; If the trees were in full bloom, I could spend the rest of my life staring, At red, blue, fuschia flowers. Funny thought, that, I'm not a fan of plants, But look, everything's now red. The seasons must have changed under my eyes, Wait, silly me, it's just blood. The things that go through my head at this time, Should I not think of my life? Yes, I think I like flowers: they're pretty, But my head's got something in it. Times like these when I need something to read, To take my mind off the pain. The flowers are calling me to smell them, Hunters for me to feed them. It is too late to listen or respond, I am crashing through the bush. I would rather like a last cup of tea, Do tribesmen even drink tea? Goodbye, the hill is much too wet and steep, The flowers are now fading. I love life; Tis' a bloody, bloody blur, Much too fast for one near-sighted. Seems I must keep going even half-blind, When I reach the bottom, leave. The tribesmen will gather up their bounty; I hope I don't burn when fried.