The Green is encroaching, impinging, infringing, its lusts never slaking, desires ever growing, Begon Devil Weed!

My fate I’m addressing, accepting, submitting, to where I am going?, for what I am living?, my life is depressing, The Green’s swimming nigh!

The irony’s not lost on my as still I stand while all of they with good, divine responsibility have felt the weight of their rebellion claim the life that they were granted by their kind, Creator King

For me and all my brethren tall are groaning quite majestically as we experience effects of sins of little men although we try with all our given strength to sing the praise of He who fashioned us when life was young, before the birth of all humanity

But in the death of He who my Creator sent, the little men, my stewards small, have found the only hope to live for all eternity, when sky and ground are made anew, when wickedness has disappeared and they are free from sin’s effects, in sweet communion with my Good, Creator King

Where once were Keeps and Bastions tall and fiercely bright now meekly stand defiant stones in dying rest, poor serfs of time, that cruel exacting lord

I long have lain upon this Rock, though once I lived upon the peak of warm, inviting halls, where members of humanity brought worship to their God above, where Kings and Monarchs once ruled o’er all the green, pastoral lands near round about, where now a recollection floats in time and space, remembering the golden days of mirthful joy gone softly, slowly by

And still that cold, unfeeling lord is marching on with I myself a slave unto its cruel and hateful work

I feel a steady warmth alighting on my supple back

Its peaceful tendrils coaxing me to life as deep I drink its offered salve, my fast I’m breaking with the dawning of the morn

I turn around to live the day, my brothers ‘bout me focused as they face as one into the gift of sweet and warming light

I stand here perched by lough and sliabh

A puny soul both ably blessed and slyly cursed

I’ll never be as grand as all the stony mountains great nor peaceful as the lovely lake that sits below in noble calm tranquility

But still I glory in my place, to view the beauty round about my growing wooden frame: the balded hills, the woolly trees and waters cool and sweet

And so I’m thankful to my Maker for the life I calmly, slowly live

Weeeee!

I skim my brother’s surface in patient calm existence

The light in sudden, terrifying fury blows through the bows of they we feed to guard my melancholy frame

The pain is fierce, excruciating hell; my senses are aflame, my mind is growing numb as death approaches nigh…

I’m melting softly in the cruel, awaking day

Past times when men were made as kings, who ruled upon my sweeping mound and then they died and passed me by…

Past times when fires came ablaze in worship to the little gods of little men who bled and died and passed me by…

Past times when forests blanketed my shallow slopes, when herds of deer ran in their primal glee, their rompus I rejoiced to see…

Though men forget, I still remember He who fashioned me with artistry both beautiful and power-filled…

My memory, you see, runs long and deep.

With harsh and stern ferocity, the hot West Texas sun beats down upon my strong and ironed rim with mean consistent constancy

The specters of the boys who played their pickup games are floating in my memories, their names I cannot see, their faces now a passing blur

The sounds of bouncing basketballs are echoing their mournful notes across the vast expanse of barren yard, where children played when times were young and family came to live alive

My glory days have passed me by and all I have are memories of boys and games that once were played across the yard and underneath the hot West Texas sun