A stick, a stone, its the end of the road
Its the rest of a stump, its a little alone
Its a sliver of glass, it is life, its the sun
It is night, it is death, its a trap, its a gun
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush
A knot in the wood, the song of a thrush
The wood of the wind, a cliff, a fall
A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all
Its the wind blowing free, its the end of the slope
Its a beam its a void, its a hunch, its a hope
And the river bank talks of the waters of March
Its the end of the strain
The joy in your heart
The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone
The beat of the road, a slingshots stone
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow
A fight, a bet the fange of a bow
The bed of the well, the end of the line
The dismay in the face, its a loss, its a find
A spear, a spike, a point, a nail
A drip, a drop, the end of the tale
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light
The sound of a shot in the dead of the night
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump,
Its a girl, its a rhyme, its a cold, its the mumps
The plan of the house, the body in bed
And the car that got stuck, its the mud, its the mud
A float, a drift, a flight, a wing
A hawk, a quail, the promise of spring
And the river bank talks of the waters of March
Its the promise of life, its the joy in your heart
A stick, a stone, its the end of the road
Its the rest of a stump, its a little alone
A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe
Its a thorn in your hand and a cut in your toe
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite
A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night
A pin, a needle, a sting a pain
A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain
A pass in the mountains, a horse and a mule
In the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue
And the river talks of the waters of march
Its the promise of life in your heart
A stick, a stone, the end of the road
The rest of a stump, a lonesome road
A sliver of glass, a life, the sun
A knife, a death, the end of the run
And the river bank talks of the waters of march
Its the end of all strain, its the joy in your heart