Don't want anything to do with the place.
Can't stand the smell, color, the looks on his face.
Lots money spent, people hired — all in the name of healin' ya'
Watch you, tube you, wire you — and with any luck, avoid killin' ya'
The bear went in, just as he did in the old days.
They patched, and scratched, dosed and said "No ways."
He thought he was a goner, started saying goodbyes.
Reached for something way down, as we all just stood by.
Saw him after few weeks, other trouble seemed to focus him.
No grey color, fogged eyes, sissy grip, some pain — but rising like a crocus then.
Don't like it. Have trouble, don't want anything to do with the place.
Keep me out, can't stand it. The smell, color, the looks on his face.
__ Rob Carrigan
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