Many plough, never soothe like a bad tooth
Dig the land and flick the sand for dinner's broth
Past lovers aren't four leaf clovers in the summer
Ghosts with perfect grammar and one buried a hammer.

Many a talks,
river-side walks.
wishing for a lake
to serve all their sakes,
strong arms may be
but tell that to the seasons
when rain fall never drops
like a balloon as it pops.

Nothing like a talk host
with a small cost,
to bury your head in
with the dead.