In 50 Words Or Less: After X Why Z?
Whose stitch in time saves mine, Hawkins wandered?
Rough ribbed on prairie seas he scratched himself
for fleas, he Hawkins, feelingly–the rigors of mortis
setting in, those coffee blues, that doomsday feeling.
Hawkins remembered the strangest apples bitten
to the root of matter on the backside of the moon.
And now he might as well (as Fate) slouch on
to Beaverton for late connections, for tea and toast.
Birds nesting in the soup–now for the pouring:
Nothing of egregious errors. Peccadillos only.
No more flying saucers or at the most no Hex.
All this for him has been a silk purse of years at best.
But now unleashed and on the scent he plays for Zed.