Vital signs, the pulse prances on
Like a sailors song, life rolls along
A man must believe
In such a happiness as he might conceive
If he wants to contrive
Of the sweet sweet honey
That comes from the hive
A sweet drool, a slow drip
Must ignore the crack of the wicked whip
All the evil that sand might supply
Only the power to wash away time
The coal man goes on with a happy hand
Mapping his woes on the banjo’s strands
Sorrow finds even the best of man
Will it beset his life’s trended stand?
A woman may work by the river all her days
Never even see the beauty in its winding ways
At one time black and white seemed brand new
The truth is grey is a timeless hue
Once the lively colors drain away
What days do your screens defend?
Will the wonder out way the wallow?
Do we live like we are alive?
Is our happiness too hard to swallow?
On through our numbered days
Beyond grey we must strive
Though a moment may be seeping with sorrow
Similar to a sandwich at the general store
Happiness is a choice made to order
True happiness is wrapped in time.
Do you believe in the honey?
Is that steady drip still alive?
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