A barrel rolls down the hill,
Sides battered, woodwork worn and nails rusted as it rolls down the hill,
empty of contents, hollow sounds boom as it rolls down the hill,
It faces rocks and falls as it rolls down the hill,
It suffers without a sound as it rolls down the hill,
always wondering how this journey will end as it rolls down the hill
Will it break, will the mountain ever end as it rolls down the hill,
will it shatter once it hits the bottom of the hill,
or will it continue on and on ever after rolling down the hill.
It faces storm and gale as it rolls down the hill,
It sees many other barrels rolling down the hill,
In front, behing and by its side as it rolls don the hill,
All different in size, type and contents rolling down the hill.
Some made of iron, glass or wood as they roll down the hill,
thier sizes vary, big as boulders, small as peas as they roll down the hill,
Some full of liquids, with colurs that vary, slushing aroud as they roll down the hill,
Some full of metals, clinking as they roll down the hill,
Some of these barrels roll beside this barrel, as the proceed down the hill,
But atlas thier paths are not together as the part along the hill,
The barrel sometimes which for its journey to end as it rolls down the hill.
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