It creeps up on you quietly
Pretending to be friendly
That is the way
Your poem opens
I should be on the farm
But choose not to work
As the fields are dormant
Nothing grows in the dry soil
It creeps up on you quietly
Pretending to be friendly
That is the way
Your poem opens
I should be on the farm
But choose not to work
As the fields are dormant
Nothing grows in the dry soil