The hills are alive and running to the sea,
while the sea is a rising how can that be?
The moon is in the seventh house lying,
while the sun is at the equinox sighing.
Earthquakes are growing like leaves on a tree,
tsunamis are flowing from the lip of the sea.
I am dying for your love or the love of thee,
you are living for my love, you will soon see.
No it isn't very pretty, what a town without pity,
can do. Gene Pitney wouldn't. Would you?
Moonbeams are forming a roof over me,
to hang studs of Viagra for all to see.
The cows are coming home and the chickens to roost,
the lies in the back room are now let loose.
Going nowhere fast on the southbound train.
My mind going northbound to a familiar refrain.
And what have I done by telling this tale?
Tired starlings turned, a whiter shade of pale.
And the hills live on.
Read War's End, the Novel
Copyright 2007 © Ronald W. Hull