Why do I need a mother?
Why do I travel?
Why do I even stress out
when what does it matter?
Who could it be
standing there under the apple tree?
When it fell, my eyes were buggin out.
Wooden eyes, whittled out for me,
they said, but who are they?
Who is there talking?
I don't care, let them talk until the clocks turn
back a day when I could see trouble.
I know I should turn around.