In The Garden, In The Park, On A Bench, I Sit.


A Newspaper Floats On The Breeze Of This Late Summer.


It Is Coming My Way,


I Patiently Wait.





I See The Sign, It's On The Road


And I Think It's Crazy





In The Garden, Of The Park, On A Bench, I Watch.


The Sandy Feet Of The Children.


Pearls Of Sweat Run Across Their Beautiful Faces.





You See The Sign, It's On The Road


But I Think You're Crazy





You Are, You Are The Sign


Of My Unrelief





As I Easily Get Inner Contact With Myself,


I Notice Distress Grabbing For My Throat.


It Is Time To Reach Out.


To Find Something That Isn't There,





You See The Signs, They're On The Road


But I Think It's Crazy





You Are, You Are The Sign


Of My Unrelief