The fence he built by the dirt road, he told me
Was never meant to snare or withhold me.
But rather, it would keep the world at bay
When he would leave, and it would stay.
"My dearest Flo, I've crafted you this bunker
Of wire and nail and maple tree trunk. Her
Voice, is but a siren to nourish the bleak flood.
Of human at human, of red blood at red blood."
"This is where my trees have gone," in jest, I said.
He looked up at me from his low-hanging head.
"Pry as they might, I will never let go
Of you and this life, my heavenly Flo."
To war and back, I'd build you this fence." Oh,
He spoke through tears an incoherence so
That I cried at his cry and fell to my knees,
And hugged at his pain and kissed at his pleas.
And on that day, I believed his conviction.
Yet when they dragged him away, it was a depiction
That on that field, he'd give his life,
And down by the dirt road, he'd left his wife.