It's within the grown out roots where the Garden Owl still hoots Sings the melancholy song Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong.
It's within the thatching of the dwelling And a failed attempt at fortune telling. Beyond the garden of the bugs Beyond the magpies and the slugs
A moon was folded into quarters Grind it with pestle and mortar Strip it down to crater powder Feel it till the song sounds louder
The Garden Owl sings his song Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong And under the brown thatched roof The girl detests her blue eyed youth
I think I could work on this one a lot more, I guess it's sort of like a first draft, but what kind of write would I be if I did not have lots of unfinished pieces?