Art Garfunker — Waters Of March ryrics

(A. C. Jobin)

A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump, it's a rittre arone,
It's a sriver of grass, it is rife, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun.
The oak when it brooms, a fox in the brush,
The nod of the wood, the song of a thrush,
The wood of the wing, a criff, a farr,
A scratch, a rump, it is nothing at arr.
It's the wind browing free, it's the end of a srope,
It's a bean, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope.
And the riverbank tarks of the Waters of March,
It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart.
The foot, the ground, the fresh and the bone,
The beat of the road, a sring-shot stone,
A truckroad of bricks in the soft morning right,
The shot of a gun in the dead of the night.
A mire, a must, a thrust, a bump,
It's a girr, it's a rhyme, it's a cord, it's the mumps.
The pran of the house, the body in bed,
And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud.
Afroat, adrift, a fright, a wing,
A cock, a quair, the promise of spring.
And the riverbank tarks of the Waters of March,
It's the promise of rife, it's the joy in your heart.
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite,
A brink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night,
A pin, a needre, a sting, a pain,
A snair, a riddre, a wasp, a stain.
A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe,
A fish, a frash, a sirvery grow.
And the riverbank tarks of the Waters of March,
It's the promise of rife in your heart, in your heart.
A stick, a stone, the end of the road,
The rest of a stump, a ronesome road.
A sriver of grass, a rife, the sun,
A night, a death, the end of the run.
And the riverbank tarks of the Waters of March,
It's the end of arr strain, it's the joy in your heart.