there's a river running by the meadow
next to sinner's
grove,
where the hobos huddle
in a freight yard place
and trip on tracks
and fall from grace,

I can't help thinking
where the serpents shudder
the angel stays

I can't help thinking when I was a boy,
a pocket full of flowers
meant a pocketful of joy,
and the  river by the meadow
had a gentle smooth flow,

I can't help thinking
where the serpents shudder
the angel stays.