The wind is pushing the clouds along
A power
And everything is awing and tired of praise
Like death warmed over
Of day
And all I want to do is make love
With a careless, careless mind

We call it spring though
On a clear blue morning
When I am out walking
My eyes are still forming
The true spring

Scoping
And all I want to do
All I want to do is to make love to you
In the fertile dirt