In a Misty Morning of spring,
Wrapped like a bird with a feather,
And a snug from my mother.
My heart pounds as though my blood is gold,
But that poor thing couldn’t bear the cold.
Dadda makes my dry soul bloom,
Like a hyacinth in a Meadow,
Enclosed with thorns named Money.
And that one swept his Manliness,
And made him as thick as honey.
Wipe your tears Mommy, Your little girlie,
Would earn a piece of a penny,
And that may get your spine back,
And our sweet family would never ever crack!
As times fly like a sparrow, One day,
I’ll be a piece of junk,
Tampering on your starlit way.
But who knows? I may be a monk,
Staring right at your gloomy face,
Ever since you took pace.
Or shall I be a money plant,
In a stranger’s garden land…?
