Mother thinks I’ve had enough
I suppose she could not have known;
That all my loves like wings of doves
Have feathers thinly grown
I could have thought my heart was bought by wings so seldom found
And golden thread from a cornstalk bed
That whispers Heaven’s sound.
An early morning pot of tea
And a bookcase full of all
I caught the trees with an easterly breeze
And the birds flew in the squall
Those early days my book worm ways
With birds and trees were bound
And the lady cared, to my tent she dared to whisper Heaven’s sound.
The lady fair in the wood high chair
She looks like sister grim
The fox stood tall in the shower stall
And his suit was pistol prim,
And I grabbed hands to his wedding bands
And chased him round and round
With golden thread and a corn stock bed to whisper Heaven’s sound.
(c) words and music, Marc D. Beaudin