Old Snaggle Tooth
Ere comes this way though babes and youth,
May not be told all that is truth.
For when it comes to Jack the Green,
All may appear not as it seems,
Ere whisked away o’er clouds a dreams.
Pray tell us of his horns of gold,
His furrowed brow and eyes so bold,
Ere looking on to times retold.
Of legends past, on brighter days,
That call his songs sung on the breeze,
That make me swoon and fall to my knees,
In reverence to such splendid scenes.
Of gardens green, with fruit so ripe,
Illuminating Faery light,
That pushes back the darkest night.
Protector o’er the sacred grove,
Come out so I may see ya soul,
That’s carved into this wooded knoll.
In every place and everything,
I see ya face and all ye bring,
And in God’s grace does my heart sing,
There, in the glade, with ye again.