0 81 0
I had a dream in the spring, of monks that pulled the ropes, so bells of bra** would ring. But Charlie was a horse I couldn't ride! Of isles of wooden pews, filled with old women' walling. A drunk in from the cold, desperately hanging to the railings. Of children fidgeting, mothers chiding, fathers glaring, while all the while, those bra** bells were blaring. But Charlie was a horse I couldn't ride! A mans mouth full of prayer and eulogy, all dressed in black, so fine and spiffy, a women in front, all tears and sniffy. Up the cry down the row, I think I see a face I know! It frightens me to see what's real, to finally know the spoke from wheel; ‘cause all the while it's me inside. For Charlie was a horse I couldn't ride!