Lille

Is there more to learn, your Ma's all scorn, she'll see me burn, strung trees yellow robes, with vinegar and thorns, and ways she would know, a harvest unearned, i'm lucky to be born, the way you spurned, hate of such a load, in fields of corn, free from any crowd, your mother flared, like a hurricane storm, but you didn't care, kissed me and shared, a summertime sojourn, time to spare, on fine blue mornings.