Words, words

Words words glorious words Travelling seeds in bellies o’ birds
Silent will go a birds morning chirp ‘Til drop he his seeds, do take root in th’ earth
If its roses, or grain, or ivy in stone, Doth only the beautiful gardner known
Lest he be evil, and evil he grows For birds at the park bench he sits and he throws Handwritten handfuls he cast Never reaching the last
Of the seeds refilled in his bowl A heavy feed to nourish light souls
But more beautifully
So dream we he be
From a garden with good at his heart
Then what shall grow
Ate by birds out shall flow
What be needed for action to start
And so lighter nourishment for lightest souls Will let them fly faster an’ achieve better goals
The Raven, the Sparrow, and the Mourning dove,
Shall cast their seeds fast, from skies up above
Then I the next grower of things that are good Shall be nourished by roots with the juiciest
fruit
All theses seeds carried on paper aviations
Shall be the groundwork of people of nations
Can grow tyranny, or knowledge, or beautiful love
From the raven, the sparrow, or th’ mourning dove,
‘Til at last all these words from all generations
Feed th’ bird brained modern population
Who must decide whether they want good or bad sensations
For more gardens to grow what kind of creations.