Kicking down through the meadow The birds flutter up golden As if they were coins And the earth the hand Of a man about to enter A dark wood He was told at the tavern He must pass through If he wishes to be whole again Who reaches into his pockets As he was told he must
Tithing
Tithing
Tithing
Kicking down through the meadow The birds flutter up golden As if they were coins And the earth the hand Of a man about to enter A dark wood He was told at the tavern He must pass through If he wishes to be whole again Who reaches into his pockets As he was told he must