Running back-pushed, feeling leg-pulled, but still hopeful to be gone. Midnight’s stench going up the back, morning seems so far from home. Every window makes an exit when all the doors are closed. Horses gallop thru the obvious till the wind gets overblown. Man gets single-handed furious ‘round the edges of a rose. And they’re trying overwhelmly to kill the birds and keep the stone. And the brainstorm gets to pass… Tunnels keep on getting warmer, after all, the cold is gone, ain’t it, baby? Mr. Underhill bends over when the servant meets the lord, but ain’t no sunshine till they get to keep the birds and kill the stone.