A passing Jehosophat said one day,
In lieu of a passing month of May,
That slid in a most delicious way,
‘I’m not quite sure what I’m meant to say.’
And the echo of his words rang true on
The canyon walls and in valleys blue.
But then some Bumble birds sang forth
Of bees and skirts and caramel tart.
And the rain came raining sweet and pure
On the crawling, slithering, well meant Sture.
In their own way transparently pure,
But only in the singulure.
The passing Jehosophat who saw all this
Then saw his lunch and also laughed.
He laughed out loud and booming strong
Because he knew his life was past
And looking back, not up or down,
He came to know the stiff’s a clown.