That's nice. I just dribbled on my own chin.I'm drooling now. Oh no, the tequila's working!Okay, ready?No!A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road.It's the rest of a stump. It's a little alone.It's a sliver of glass. It is life. It's the sun. It is night.It is death. It's a trap. It's a gun.The oak when it blooms. A fox in the brush.The knot of the wood. The song of a thrush.The wood of the wind. A cauldron of fire.A cliff. A fall. A scratch. A lump. It is nothing at all.It's the wind blowing free. It's the end of the slope.It's a beam. It's a void. It's a hunch. It's a hope.And the riverbank talks of the waters of March. It's the end of the strait.It's the joy in your heart. The foot. The ground.The flesh and the bone. The beat of the road.A slingshot stone. A fish. A flash. A silvery glow.A fight. A bet.The range of a bow. The bed of a well.The end of the line. The dismay in the face. It's a loss.It's a find. A spear. A spike. A point. A nail.A drip. A drop. The end of the tale.A truckload of bricks. In the soft morning light. The shot of a gun.In the dead of the night. A mile. A must.A thrust. A bump. It's a girl. It's a rhyme. It's a cold.It's the mumps. The plan of the house. The body in bed.And the car that got stuck. It's the mud. It's the mud.A float. A drift. A flight. A wing. A hawk.A quail. The promise of spring. And the riverbank talksof the waters of March. It's the promise of life. It's the promise of life.It's the joy in your heart.It's the joy in your heart.It's the joy in your heart.It's the joy in your heart.It's the joy in your heart.A snake. A stick. It is John. It is Joe.It's a thorn in your hand and a cut on your toe.A point. A rain. A beat. A bite.A blink. A buzzard. A sudden stroke of night.A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain, a snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain, a pass in the mountains, a horse and a mule, in the distance the shell drove me shadows of blue, and the riverbank talks of the waters of March, it's the promise of love in your heart, in your heart, a stick, a stone, the end of the road, a rest of a stump, a lonesome road,a sliver of glass, a knife, a sun, a knife, a death, the end of the run, and the riverbank talks of the waters of March, it's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart.It's the joy, the joy in your heart.Oh, if you have one.Oh, if you have one.