It’s easy for me to think on mud.
Got mud in my eye, mud in my shoe,
mud in every last orifice known to man.
Made of mud, that’s me.
Sit down and cry mud.
Wanna die mud.
Can’t even try, mud, to get back up.
But over in another town,
or some other side of this mountain of mud
I think a bird is singing. Maybe it is.
And if it’s singing then maybe this morning
I’ll take my mud face and mud hands
and do some serious crawling in that direction.
Gonna love me some bird song.