In the woods that bore me. The lyre, with flute, that brought me up. To sing the songs of olde. Collecting moisture in God's cup. A lover's muse needs chasing. Through thick, heath, and grove all day. Because, life's to short for wasting. On Kings that need more pawns to play. So I strum my chords for living. To drink, and dance, then fish the Sea. These things should be a given. But men will never let this be. Your fear of death will trick you. It'll make you lie, and cheat, or harm. But must you feel the need too, trade your honey for their swarm? The race of men shall always repeat the past then fall asleep. Right up until our final days. I pray the lord my soul to keep. Sleepwalking paths overgrown, now alone. You came here as one, and not a soul more. Yet, you fight to regain youth with a moan. Missing the root, ignoring your core.