Oh! It's you with oyster-hands,
Docked, and now stepping down the pedestal.
The Wind had told me you'd come,
Like sweetness in most fruits -
It's nice you came, -
Your face screams 'Health!'.
What vigour must've it taken, what gruesome beast,
To move that rock! -
Now I guess life will be
A miracle (!) —— there'll be no more
Gabbing
And sights of filaments will not
be as rare.
Only halcyon days now.
