This dark road is filled with more bumps Than the napropatholigist can smooth With his two stout hands, The stones are dark, And wind worn, And zing past us, Whipping through a bleak Blue sky as a punishment Of living, and we wait And keep waiting, For some great pardon That never seems to come It is the turning of dirt In a fallow field, Waiting on seeds That never bloom, And still we break our backs, Lead the ox, toil A days worth of sweat, Throats dry, And thirsting And though the trough Is empty, we somehow Return again, hoping That one day The earth will forgive, Man will cease Their progressive descent And that God Just might have A mammoth sense of humor