| There is a path by Lake Bras d’Or
|
| I never go there anymore
|
| It’s not the same, since you and I
|
| The path is narrow, over-grown
|
| The few that thread there, thread alone
|
| A patch of land, I call my own
|
| I planted seeds, some have grown
|
| But weeds have choked the few remains
|
| My crop has withered in the sun
|
| Doomed before it had begun
|
| I thought I read the writing on the wall
|
| Turned out that it was just a bit of scrawl
|
| I walked along, tasting my defeat —
|
| There was a time when what was writ
|
| Seemed to me clear, and full of wit
|
| There is a path by Lake Bras d’Or
|
| I never go there anymore
|
| It’s not the same, since you and I
|
| The path is narrow, over-grown
|
| The few that thread there, thread alone |