Hikes Trophy Lives
Well it seems as if I've woken still
My earthy pores turn back to quills
I pluck them suave and dip them ink
And write the folklores missing link
When I said I
Don't look up to anyone
So they cannot look back down on me
I spoon-fed façades to the forks in my road
Left was my love
Right was my home
Now I take to the middle a private drive
With six-stringed willows drying warm like hide
I'm free range game for your license to feel
So feed your family with my will
But you better hang your head
As you mount my smile
The last of my giving is the last for a while
But I'll smile
And I'll think
Why can't it always be Spring?
