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de Fred Westra

She left a note on a dollar bill again
I burned a hole in the state of Michigan
But paper money always make change
April, March and September
The tender months help me to remember
Weather and women can be so strange

In God we Trust
Salt turns to rust
Ashes from Eden
And bone into dust

I had a river of good intentions
And a garage full of great inventions
But blew it all with a slip of my tongue

On the road to the mountain
I slipped as I stared in an empty fountain
Climbed out the ladder but broke the last rung

In God we Trust
Salt turns to rust
Ashes from Eden
And bone into dust

That which has been
Is that which will be
That which was done
Is that which is done
For there is nothing
New under the Sun

She left a note on a dollar bill again
I burned a hole in the state of Michigan

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