tell them who scorn my ways
I lived without their praise
and will until I die
let them be cynical
I have my own faith still
to question and deny
the proud and stiff of neck
the small who grub and peck
both look too low or high
while I but seek to know
the feel of things that grow
and by my living why
step softly
step softly
your feet are on my heart
the sawdust underneath
hurts less than I
even sawdust, dry
and dirtied by our not particular feet
it's something deep inside
that aches
I know not why
unless the pride
mistakes