I see the road that winding distance,
Time the measure to traverse,
The price we pay is but a pittance,
Though the complaints are terse.
They beg and plead,
They cry and whine,
Their only pleasure the mead,
Wanting to take what's mine.
I growl,
An animalistic urge,
I prowl,
Onwards I must surge.
I seek that meadow oft,
That place of rest,
Meadow grass so soft,
Where Hope replenishes the best.
