You whisper please,
I can see begging becoming a tradition in the mist of the air.
Your heart hung up on a tree out in the middle of that field.
My finger points to it, a boney looking finger,
You wouldn’t want to hold it.
My hands are old but my skin is new, stretched over the bones, seemed almost deadly to you. I can tell you the moons secrets as it tells me yours too.
Trust in something or someone will take advantage of you.
You must choose wisely, for I don’t give good advice.
Carry me on your shoulders; I can see you as a king.
I want to be royalty, just make me apart of this land.
I will stand tall and find a place far from here,
Where the stars sit bright above my head.
And the grass may become my bed.