Flyby trees through misty musings someone is looking shifty will I reach the skies at 350 years of age as the rings inside skip to the last page
A forewarning morning chat for the birds on deathly leaves in around through a dusky autumn crown far away what was said waking half dead with dread from discomforts pit
Syd Barrett where am I now? Pussy willow felled to a chorus. Scorched bladed grass final straw this dark globe ain’t for us
I stood there silhouetted in the good old days.