Two or three now find it hard,
To follow this hand-scribbled chart
To your lakehouse, miles away,
I rip my hairs out in anxious rage.
I don't know what you want,
so tell me I don't know.
Get there, lie down near the sand,
And think through this thought that I've just had.
In green fields like these: soft, pristine:
Do the three-leaf clovers still tend to dream?
I don't know where all this hubbub began,
'Cus I've been doing better now than I was then.
With all this balm on my lips,
It's easier to take some smaller sips.
And could you water my plants?
'Cus I'll be living in mirages on the sand,
But on my way to the scene,
I found I had to refill my canteen.
Go away, I got nothing to say, 'cus I've been living just to live
and I've been coming up short.
I'm not OK, and I've got more than half-way to go,
With nothing to expect and nothing to report.