Sometimes when you bow to the bard,
the days be long, the nights be hard.
Dragin’ like a shadow on the wall,
Dragin’ like a tale too tall.
Dragin’ like a snail too small,
Dragin’ like a smile turned scowl.
Our days are numbered 1, 2, 3...
Count them for they are free.
The days of our lives quickly flee.
While we're still counting 1, 2, 3...
The beast is in the yeast,
and the bread is in the pan.
Rise to the occasion,
as best you can.
For the days they be a dragin',
and the nights, they be so long,
that it's best you have a love alongside,
to consummate the song.
For many a bard has languished,
with lost love on the mind,
with many a day a dragin’ by,
no fulfillment for to find.
So if your days are dragin',
get up, get out, and get ahead.
Don't you know your days are numbered,
before you know it, you'll be dead.
And dragin’ days won't matter,
and neither will you.
Cuz you didn't rise to the occasion,
and stayed forever blue.
Waiting for them to cry for you.
Waiting for them to pray.
Your dragin’ days be over.
Won’t matter any way.
Copyright 2011 © Ronald W. Hull