The Footpath Down To The Well Is

Forgive, O Lord, My Little Jokes On Thee, And I'll Forgive Thy Great Big Joke On Me.

I Cut My Own Hair. I Got Sick Of Barbers Because They Talk Too Much. And Too Much Of Their Talk Was About My Hair Coming Out.

Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know. His House Is In The Village Though; He Will Not See Me Stopping Here To Watch His Woods Fill Up With Snow.

When I See Birches Bend To Left And Right... I Like To Think Some Boy's Been Swinging Them.

Something We Were Withholding Made Us Weak, Until We Found It Was Ourselves.