This cloudy morn of murk,
Where on my tongue I taste dirt,
I should wallow in grey plumes, sir,
But I glide by this dank flirt,

On lady nature lay cobbled stone,
Without shoes we’d feel at home,
But this spring one looks to be known,
In diamond vestments is how we ‘grow’,

As my glide comes to a stop,
And I lay rest in this earthy shop,
Sipping elixirs of generations crops,
I breath I taste tip top,

Chakra advocate with stature,
I see you too truth catcher,
Without shoes, tongue out plan hatcher,
The dew fills your pallet, oh catch her.