It is something felt in our bones and our toes and our hair
In the ends, the joints, the corners, the tips, the straights, the bends
It is something we cannot leave behind us to rot
For it is precious to our survival, revival
It is sleep, and dreams, and air, and water, and running far
There is no need for phones, internet, planes and damned cars
You only need to go out and play in the monkey bars
