albeit next to the woody farms was where he was,
laying upon the dripping,
rich green grass,
his mind was clear,
miss jazz and lady meditation had done their bit,
in that bliss hard gotten,
when crickets seize their craze,
and trees to sway get tired of,
a stray message did land,
it was never sweet they said,
but in later dates to honey it did turn,
was it coincidencial i have long fought to know,
hardly any of the grey heads a clue,
all i hear is the hour,
that turned rock to gold,
that turn of the long and short,
a snap to lady lucks' visit,
three past the hour,
they say,
he saved a damsel in pain,
she robbed him of his hard sought peace,
but he won a heart,
lay me then,
three past the hour,
shut these lids and off slide,
dreamland ain't a myth,
and none from it ever got scathed.
©skillz
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