Folks plays the tunes passed through seasons
toiling and breaking the brown soil,wet baked
working till their skins are torn in hearty songs
Behind them comes the mothers of nature
sowing the seeds of our living beneath the soil
young chased butterflies in dreamland future
saw a twisted tendril and regreted the broken soul
Sweat drips from the honest brow
in a willful toil bended as a bow
sun rolls out and evening comes
body aches happier to sweet homes
Sleep steals the heart of young tired limb
crickets glinting speaks with legs nimb
in the art of patience passed unto every son
folks waits the forth fruitful season.
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