Pussywillows cattails soft wind and roses. Rain pools in the woodland water to my knees. Shivering, quivering the warm breath of spring. Pussywillows cattails, soft winds and roses.
Who are these ones who would lead us now. To the sound of a thousand guns. Storm the gates of hell itself. To the tune of a single drum. . Where are the girls of the neighborhood bars.
Poor little Allison standing in the night wind. Laughing out loud turning her face to the summer rain. . Poor little Allison never had much going. Hard to forget, always in step with the world she's in.
The dead leaves of Autumn that cling so desperately. Must fly before the cold October winds. Their simple lives is ended. Must they be born to die again.