To where I see at the typing tree some fellows, friends of mine.
I do not like them, Sam I am, said Fred whose family flocks
To see the sightly tripping tree and laugh at all the locks.
The doors are barred and drapes are pulled across the eerie eye
Of precious fiendish peeping toms who love their wheat and rye.
Drinks dull and dowdy pout the pull of waves that wipe the shore,
And ere we glint the air a hint, we wonder what they're for.
My friend right there with the fishbowl face, he smiles a sickly frown
Found only in the friar's den on the other side of town.
And if we grip our pick-up-sticks and shuffle out the side,
We'll crash into our comely crew and there we will have lied.
And up and out and over still the showers of the main
Will pierce our polly-crackered heads with heaps of it again.
Until the tow'ring tide and sun surrender us their skins,
I'll never cross the drag or grind and go and see my friends."
-Jon Vowell (c) 2010
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