Each time I think it’s over

It seems I’ve just begun

A chorus full of clover

Was banished in the sun

For means of which to bury

The damage I had done

The answer’s in the soil

From roots I’d given up

A breeze of dandelion

Spread seed in which to till

Much better men than me

Have offered up their will

I fear in faith my effort

Is nothing to be bought

Sometimes it’s rough to read

Sandpaper written thought

So if and when it’s over

I promise not to pry

Disaster’s second nature

I’m not that kind of guy