Pocket Full of Stones

My pocket full of stones. My pocket full.
I cannot concentrate. The river's stream
has consciousness of nothing. I am dull.
I walk into the water like a dream.

I cannot concentrate. The river's stream
will take me down and out. My own true room
has consciousness of nothing. It would seem
my life is fit to bury, not to bloom.

So take me down and out. My own true room
is crowded with disorder. Voices say
my life is fit to bury, not to bloom.
See, on the river bank, my hat and cane.

So crowded with disorder! Voices say
I've consciousness of nothing. I am dull.
See on the river bank my hat and cane.
My pocket full of stones. My pocket full.