The grass that grows four foot high
Encroaches all my view,
It ivies up the coaches' wall
And plucks off all the hope;
I have seen it in the sometimes,
A trail along my feet,
In the corner of the portrait
And the edge of every plant;
Do you hear the mourning tolls
Chime as I take steps home?
There are warnings in the everyday;
There's trouble in that foliage.
It has sight, that four foot high,
It climbs into a skin,
That evil of the sin of life,
Remains, grows ever higher, ever more.