I Push

You pull the hope, is it to much? Faith cannot bear such strain. I would rather push up daisies, than be drown't in a puddle of dreams. I fumble foot balls, the referee gives them back. Fouls fly north in my winter, tears flow forward into your eye, much deserved.It seems. I have breached no damns, yet the beaver knows, It flows. I wonder through the wilderness, with out a reference to a hat, while duck without a bill rests on the tail of the beaver, inking a quill. The queen will hear about that, it is to late to flee, these, the acts, you did presume in park, now you must play, the pipers part.