They're gonna find out, how could they not?
Keep a lid on it now, that's all that I've got.
It roils and bubbles and boils with troubles,
Mountains and mole hills, all are my stumbles.
How can I stand when the world falls away?
Grasping for roots that gave into decay.
The apple fell so readily
but came to rest exact-ly where it was supposed to be.
No hill gave it velocity
And stayed in shade of a rott'n tree.
When the lid blows off and exposes the rot,
They're gonna find out, how could they not?
About the Creator
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