The conglomerate magpie swims beneath my tires. I think she's crying ugly yellow teardrops. I write of her worries I write of her woes and I'm sending them to Heaven on a postcard made of pain. But the angels never came, only dewdrops only rain. And I'm sorry little magpie, for your troubles for your strain. I'm sorry little magpie for the things that never change. The pin-wheel-painted clover spins in the breeze. I think he's crying green, green four leaf dreams. So I write of his worries I write of his woes and I'm sending them to Heaven on a postcard made of pain. But the angels never came, only dewdrops only rain. And I'm sorry little clover, for your troubles for your strain. I'm so sorry little clover for the things that never change. The baby spring-storm puddle reflects a gloomy sky. But it's not crying... I am. And I'm writing of my worries and I'm writing of my woes and I'm sending them to Heaven on a postcard made of pain. But the angels never came, only dewdrops only rain. And I'll be sorry when it's over, when that sullen shadow shows how my skin has scarred the stories of my worries... of my woes.