The Old Man's Song

An old man stands on a precipice, thinking of days bygone,
He tucks his coat and his tips hat, as he sings a weary song

‘ Where may thee live, O little rabbit,
Your slender gait and twitching ears?
I pine for you, my pipe ‘a whistling,
 A tune your ears, will never hear ’

An old man stands on a precipice, thinking of days bygone
He tucks his coat and tips hat, and walks on ‘afore too long

‘ Wolves give chase, just when thee runs,
But what chases such dauntless beasts?
A journey that lacks destination,
A hunt without a prized feast ’

An old man walks down a loud town road, thinking of days bygone
He tucks his coat and tips his hat, and spies some children in the throng

‘ Fly away, dear crow, from those three young trolls,
They’ll rip your midnight wings!
This worlds innocence, is a well played lie,
Iron mistaken for pure gold rings. ’

An old man looks into a sunken moor, barren trees swaying nearby,
He tucks his coat and tips his hat, as he sings to the wintry sky

‘ O pretty thing, your royal hue
An artists cloudless blanket,
Such an air of completeness, knowledge, pride,
Please, tell me your secret? ’  

An old man sits on a rickety bench, silently counting to ten.
He tucks his coat and tips his hat, and is never heard of again.