She’s heading to the cabinet for another run
through the field of dreams—or so it seems.
She’s been dipping into the till;
kind of hippie tripping right beside the still,
been running through the mill—just like
Jack was chasing Jill
up the road,
up the road,
then down the road that never seems to end.
It always has that unforgiving bend.
Good thing that I am not her friend, because
she would find her way into my cabinets;
she would crawl inside my cabinets,
take the tractor for a nice little plow.
Oh, so predictable—just like a cartoon mouse
rambling along through the rest of my torn house
to all my other cabinets,
to all my other cabinets.
Now she’s heading to my favorite secret spot.
Does a basic-entry sweep like I was always taught.
Pharmers’ daughters don’t make for nice friends.
I just need my cabinets until the very end.
Shouldn’t friends know when to say when?