I take out a newspaper
And I read it on my porch
My porch consists of a deck chair and a paddock
My back to my slanting house
I read articles on the yellowing page
And I read about how the world
Has gone to the dogs
It seems that all hath lost their minds
In my solace, without companionship,
I wonder if I have lost my mind too
Its been so very long since I have had
To make tea for someone
I believe the last had been my brother
Now I am the youngest sole
Of brothers three
Here on my farm,
I am free
By they near
And they are dear
To me their baby brother
That’s why I keep them
Near and dear
To me
Old stories turned to dust and ash
Not even a legend, not even a myth
After all, dead men tell no tales
Especially not about Inglewood convicts
Especially not when you put poison numb
In their tea
If my Uncle won't tell me the story of the three brothers, I shall make my own
