Can’t talk to who’s not listenin’.
Can’t tell ’em what they need to hear.
Can’t show them what would open their eyes.
If they saw you surprise, you disappear.
It’s just such blindness, such deafness.
Which is killing you slow and killing you sure.
And there’s just no way they won’t be the poison.
Just no way that you can be the cure.
Does that mean give up? Why yes, it does.
Pull up your britches and dance in the mud.
Love is yours still and forever sweet.
Such has always been the glory, the blood.
I know it hurts to feel such pain
when easily inside you would save them.
But turn not to judge, please, you remain.
You remind me of the well I wish in.
And as the master of music simply put it,
it is what you don’t it’s not what you do.
A toast to what this spring shall bring
to us, to truth, to nite, to you.