the old man sat in his serene hideout,
solitude the buddy he always sought,
and in this quietness,
despite the murmurs of the yawning maize stalks,
and whining macadamia leaves,
the old man had peace,
and to it he sang little sad songs,
of the sons he had buried (daddy),
and the grandchildren he had lost (many),
and in the pain drowned words,
misery was told,
in words not so bold,
but much did hold,
and i tell of a song sang,
by a man in tear lines hang,
®skillz
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