When Saying It Meant Something
Back long ago, before ducks could walk;
Very far back, when I did not even talk.
Pistols would ring out in ears like a bell;
Taking down hooligans that ne’er do well.
Dusted by sprites, or so it would seem;
Flowing right quickly, caught in a stream.
To never be lost or grossed out by decay,
Tired and weary, you search for the way.
Wandering whipsaws not welcoming worry;
Why must you always be in such a hurry?