coyote sing along hour, thinking about upcoming birthday
so you run and you run to catch up to the sun, but it's sinking
and racing around to come up behind you again
the sun is the same, in a relative way, but you're older;
and shorter of breath,
and one day closer to death.
ev'ry year is getting shorter,
never seem to find the time.
plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines,
hanging on in quiet desperation is The English Way,
the time is gone,
the song is over,
I thought I'd so much more to say.
Home, home again.
I like to be here when I can.
When I come home cold and tired,
it's good to warm my bones beside the fire.
Far away, across the fields,
the tolling of the iron bells
calls the faithful to their knees
to hear the softly-spoken magic spells.
