| |
 |
|
The mushrooms are
poppin, their jobs they’re a droppin |
| At night they’re not stoppin,
in our little valley |
| In the distance a flag, so I
run with my bag |
| I look for the brothers, the
hat is their mother |
| |
|
I turd in my drawers,
there are three chunks or four |
 |
|
The reason is there, a
large grizzly bear |
| It starts to get scary as
the forest gets thicker |
| Not from the critters, but
the crazed eyes of a picker |
| |
 |
|
I do what I want, I’ll
sleep on the moss |
| Cuz out here in the forest,
I’m my own boss |
|
If you get lost, the
Bigfoot will come |
|
To watch and protect
you, til up comes the sun |
| |
|
We kick back in the
shack, cards, drinks, and lies |
|
 |
| The stories start growing,
price, weight and size |
| But the price it has
dropped, to two bucks a pound
|
  |
| What the heck buyers, quit
messin around |
|
All of us know that
it’s based on a lie |
| A six pack and burger is all
I can buy! |
| |
|
The fleas and the
worms, there’s no reason to pout |
 |
| I have twenty patches, one’s
bound to white out |
|
The days become short,
the shrooms moldy with slime |
| These
are the signs, that I’m clear out of time |
| |
|
In spite of the
sadness, we let out a cheer |
|
| The real pickers know, that
there’s always next year |
| My feet are real #%@$! sore |
| But I’m still having fun |
|
Look at that bump, my
sweet number one |
| |
|
By The Mushroom Poet |
|
