Rocks.
Rocks.
The rocks are all I have.
To play with.
To work with.
Says so my mom and dad.
Stones.
Stones.
Leave no stones unturned.
I nudge them.
I pile them.
No better living earned.
Crack.
Crack.
Goes pa with the pick axe.
To break the rocks
and stones too big
for ma
and me,
his daughters three,
that makes his girls
a total four,
with strength we lack
but still we crack
and never slack
off will we stack
the stones, rocks, boulders,
on our shoulders,
granite, wackestone,
together, alone;
shale, marl, flint,
and those that glint,
and those still dull,
'cause on my farm
I've seen them all,
the blues, greens, reds,
though mostly greys,
we farm them all
farm everyday
just rocks and stones
we'd crack and knock
as pa would say,
it's "in our bones."
Rocks.
Stones.
Crack.
Crack.