Joyless Tim lived his life on a hill,
Lugging up timber and rubbing his chin,
He didn’t have a woman, no humor, no whim,
But up with the sun from his cabin he’d rise,
He’d whistle a tune pick an axe and a flask,
And walk down the meanders of Hillborough’s paths,
He’d chop up the wood and just wait for a sound,
A bluebird’s song chanting, “End of the day,”
Now Tim was as simple as he was a brute,
But still he was gentle, with a flower and a flute,
He kept a huge garden of bristles and briars,
And deep in the rough, scattered patches of orchids,
He’d labor for days, only resting at dusk,
With a ritual of song, and a fire by his briars,
He’d wistfully prowl, dream of breaking his husk,
And maybe just smile or contend with a laugh,
The mournful airs, a tune of the grave,
A wind changing course, something none could’ve saved,
The flute ringing clear in the depths of the night,
An oddity indeed for Hillborrough’s like,
The hack wasn’t heard for a time up the hill,
And so cold were the nights, you could suck up the chill,
Accustomed to serenading his friend’s path down at dusk,
The bluebird’s song was never heard up the hill,
Joyless Tim lived his life on a hill,
Tending to bushes of thorns and his heart,
His heartbeat a pause when the ballad goes shush,
And then it is gone when the cymbals go crash!
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