At 44, I snore late.
I’m half eighty-eight.
I might be a door weight.
I know how to bore, mate.
Too far gone, contemplate.
So much thinking, I’m always late.
Come Lord, come, it’s past the date.
Heal this place, how long is the wait.
Life is a flight, I always look down.
It’s hard to look back and drop the frown.
I'm still in the air, but flapping around,
I need to fly up cause I scrape the ground.
How long before landing.
I’m loathing the planning.
The groaning, demanding.
He’s holding my hand.
Come Lord heal this land.
I’m 44 and sore mate.
It’s weighty this wait.
I’m late in getting lift,
You’re soaring without drift.
