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