In twenty four and seven more and one week ahead we'll meet
down at the pilgrims parsonage,where travellers sit to rest their weak and weary souls
and where donkeys tied to willow poles, whip round and round thus bringing water above the ground from down below.
This is the flow of life I see in all humility and serenity,where tranquillity doth override man's overpowering urge to ramble on and ride upon the tails of tales we tell.

The well is deep and we take our fill
as the pill sometimes we swallow,bitter is the man who doesn't know,the flow and where she goes.

Insolent men will scoff,deride the secrets that we hold as true,inside the barriers we ***** to keep the heathens we suspect to be at gain, so ill,
and one more pill to chew upon until the taste of arsenic,
gone are all the thoughts of greed and if we ever needed them or did we leave them to the insolence in us,the men
and are we then the men become
those who look blindsided, sideways at the sun and never blink,nor stop to think of Icarus who flew too high,too near,
wings are meant for birds and men may try to fly as such,
a touch too much of looking at the sun!

Fear not the walkers of the sands with calloused hands and spirits free
fear not for he is we
the seeker and the same
the one by any other name we like to call.

I fall again into the flow as only fallen men would know
to feel refreshed and at my ease
anyway I like to please
the audience who only come to watch the show
and never really get the flow
at all.