Everybody pushen' and pullen' at me
Tucking roses round my bedside,
like wasps around a tree.
And I can't seem to get up
what's the reason, anyway,
When all they do is promise me,
then bleed me dead away.
Like parasites to blue moths.
I'm some puppet on a string.
Measured in their happiness
when I yield the song they sing.
When I fit into the fine print
of their blue copied plans.
When I say the things they want me to,
do the things they think I can.

Everybody pushen and pullen at me
Tucking roses round my bedside
like wasps around a tree.
And I can't seem to get up
the skies, a'cavin' in
And my spirit's getting thin
and my mind's a'breaking too!
And God knows, it's up to You!

July 28, 1971
By Linda A. Copp ©