Days pass by the meadow weir,
faces pass with rush they seem,
so content to be, so curious for me.
I am clenched by the throat with hands in my spine,
forcing a smile, acting as fine.
I am far by the creek where I brush my long hair,
where I wait for my swain who’s tall & fair.
I am surrounded by trumpery, claiming my eyes,
yet they tell me to hide from the filth & the lies.
Months pass by the meadow stream,
and I am far from the madding crown.