How much has been said about what we do find
Deep beneath the solid layers of pine
We rake and we groom, shovel and we dig
Perhaps it’s all in the shape of our rig
The ending is the beginning is the same in the rain
The trollys will continue, in circles hardly vain
Then here, with the lot of it, we sit and we pout
Trying to figure out the riddles of our gout
Even with the long lines, and bustling desires
Have we ever found a whistle blown not by a squire?
So then we do perfect that which we’ve had all along
The deepest and darkest and lightest of songs
It’s one and the the same
Simply in vain