Come with me to the old, brown river
And under those tall trees we’ll lie down.
The whole human race will be elsewhere
As we fool around.

Spend your time in a new situation,
Without the old pressures and guiles,
And we’ll lie in the muddy turf afterwards,
With sweet smiles.

To the heights of passion,
As armies keep their appointments in the mist.
Fog along the riverbank.
Enchanted tryst!

Boats and boxes are packed for travel.
Memory of a child lies low.
We left our things by the river.
Now where are we to go?

Fortunately, I know what you’re thinking.
You think this will tragically end.
But give me your hand; it’s alright.
Poetry is only pretend.


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