If I Need a Friend Maybe Run Acrostic

(from Simon & Garfunkle's "Bridge Over Troubled Water) If is such a weak word, it branches, crackling under foot. You know it, but you use it to sing me into sleep, never suspecting need dangles down upon my head, tickling and wrapping a comforting hand upon my qualms. If lets you back out friend, but you wait more patient than the coming of snow. I'm me, its enough. My ifs and ands are more numerous than leaves sailing as I kick them about. Leaves don't crackle, they weep right into the concrete meaning of our existence. Uncertain moment behind a closed door. Certain moment under a bed of dirt like hugs from relatives you've never met before. A friend though eclipses the daylight, becomes lightning to bridge over or explode into laughter, where do I put them? Over one shoulder like cast spilled salts? That seems sly, troubled. Can I weave them together and have life? Water offers that but slips away, how then bugs? Ducks? I slip into water as easily as ifs are thrown into the winds. Will my hair blow like an arrow toward fate or does chance ease into icicles. They're weapons, ifs, ands, buts, maybes. Your friendship is such, dressing and undressing like fashion minds the sales racks. Still though, I'm glad that you and ifs are here.