i think my pastor fast oft,
He'd let the perching birds be
A crawling thing with furs soft
I think i'd done the same at the sea
Making things believed correct；
it is shrinking,it is drying
and the patch becoming wet
Old me at eye of needle donning
Pulling out away with force
Like the old bag with emery dust
only the tears turning worse
and girls wears becoming cost
We go mixing liquors and lime
we don’t have to say anything wise
of what went on at that time
you go building your house in the ice
I am thinking i see you coming
Like a child's car rolled down the rugs
I think I would hear it horning
Like the band of morning frogs.