It's said that a stitch in time saves nine,
well pass the wool to the fools,
stress to them that nothing's as it seams,
coil caution tape around what's commonly coveted,
weary of winding up the woeful with warnings they're wound up to be wounded.

It's only a while before wit gives way to grit and the garments don't fit,
leaving behind a bare brother brewing bitterly on cold concrete,
his evidence is shaken,
validity made volatile,
placed on a polluted pile,
slide her a sweater for she shivers,
he should've known better.

Tell the young black stallion,
most times his mare knows best,
there's a stark simplicity to the test,
tell them all to labour to enter in to His rest.