I

Trippin with the daisies
or the flowers in her hair,
make them go away your worries
she banishes your cares.
The soup is never too hot,
My me is much too lazy,
All my troubles disappear
when I’m with my lady,
bugs.
But here we go and with the trees
on shores of golden sand,
and wastin away in Bugaloo
her hand caress my hand.
The days have all been pink and green
A cloud bit me in the eye,
But in Bugaloo I will always live
until the day I die
today.
The book she holds out to me
is littered with untaught debris,
The snow blew bitter, never
Yet it enveloped me.
The island was surrounded
by boiling trees and burning water,
and when the little daisies flew,
her hair would smell of flowers.

II

The days I left fell from the sky,
a tear as from the sun,
and assuring that day I vowed return,
by boat or stride or run.
Away I have been for much to late,
but to return why does it scare?
Never unworries not, and golden sands,
or the flowers in her hair.
To Bugaloo! To Bugaloo!
To the place of love of me.
To her, and bugs, and daisies, yes,
but why cannot find thee.
Yet in the mourn as I awoke
as dream still I in haze,
and as I seemed to look around
twas Bugaloo but gray.
Barren and Desolate and completely gone
as if destroyed by godly hands,
and what was there must of doing this,
who is this hatefilled man?
As Bugaloo I wandered thricefold day,
unfortunate yet I see,
that this place and love of I
was destroyed by me.

III

And as I sit before the flame,
battered and worn as to be.
To times and tales of long ago,
retreat the thoughts of me.
Through the wood as the snow has blown
as the joy long turned to sorrow,
this fire which has carried me
shall warm no more tomorrow.
The days have left so long ago,
but nights yet still remain.
The tears of my love fall to the earth,
and leave me to the pain.
My head falls down to burden my hands,
hopelessness never to blur.
As fingers string through grayend hair,
the memories sting of her.
Love of I, yet destroyed by me,
never has been heard,
and as the shame consumes my soul,
no utterance of the word.
Yet lifting my face barely to see,
and emptying thy palm.
Searching through the dying fire
unto I sense a calm.
And near a stone beyond the cold,
beaten thought, still yet I knew.
As from the flames, given to the snow,
a little daisy flew.

Pretty deep, isn't it? When you're through, please click here to go back to my library.