Fall Far, My Son

into the weeds we go again, and youare a born whistler, son, my heart you steal everyone knows and every year, still true Aye, it is, you would, wouldn't you, it's who you are and I'm just a falling log, my son I wish you well as well can be, no fear of rodents or of man or dog, but time will tattle if you rise up through the bog, so green and live a little, my little log, I fear for you an axmen comes, as did for me