Ancestors

Do believe it’s accurate
It’s never net happening
The current is all flows on which we are traveling
The wind in my sails is the air in my diaphragm
That which is not love will pale in comparison
Avarice in average men
ICK
What arrogance!
I rubbed shoulders playing tennis in Greenwich with them
Life is just a game, trying to beat 10 percent of them
Rinse, wash, win again
Peace Seven!
Good lord, bless the seedlings
And the hands that keep them
The air above them
And the lands underneath them
It’s not enough to love them
She said, “Nurture then you free them
Only those who take advantage ever keep them“
Steeped in tradition
The old heads spoke, so we listened
And a few of us remembered what was whispered
Play hard, play fair, play your position
Walk good, be well, be the difference