To the Hut (Mitre of the Flats)

Run from the past
That's nipping at our heels
Through the root infested jungle
To the hut out on the plains

Laugh your lovely trill
Take the pen and quill
There we shall find a place
In the hut out on the plains

Nestled between sheltring hillsides
The time shall appear
For the airing of thoughts
And passing of cards

Flash those perfect brown eyes
At me one more time
I am already dancing
To such a merry tune

But booted feet carry away
The last remnant of time
Of refreshedness through exhaustion
In the hut on the plains.