In October as the pips fall
Where they May
And the clocks tick backwards
In misty eyed recollection of June
New Yorkshire bathes in a shining sun
And pulls at its blue and white collar
As the sweatrickles race with gravity
Ever on
Wholesome Jeremiah Woebegone puffs out his
cheeks
In a close approximation of an
anthropomorphic representation
Of the North Wind
And blows the crown of suds from the
meniscus on his glass of Brown Ale
Before quaffing an unladylike amount of
liquid for such a pretty young thing
It is
what it is and has ever been thus and it is very that
He agrees wholeheartedly noncommittal as
usual
With the landlord
It’s
like, whatever!
Who is used to serving up the usual to the
increasingly unusual
But this is a first in any tavern in any
town
An overheard use of
Whatever!
As a dismissive exclamation
And he neglects to write it down
I wouldn’t say the yeoman missed the boat
But he waves a perpetually unclaimed ticket
Soaking all sorts of soppish ideas as he
does
Only to wring them out in morning’s drain
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