The first fellow we meet
is one fine looking leaf
we pass him by with a friendly nod
and up the path we do trod on.
The second chap has a sweet mint perfume
his offered candy we do consume.
And by and by we come upon
a short little fellow with a blue coat on.
We then pass a lady, her skin quite pale
her belongings scattered across the winding trail
in her left hand she holds a cigar
though it has begun to rain
she puffs it hard.
We pass a man who is brittle and frail
he looks like he needs a good ginger ale.
The last we meet by a rotted gate
his trunk is twisted in a gnarled state
a home once stood under his weathered boughs
a final sentinel, a lonely plough.