A one lane bridge, Scarborough fair! A parsimony; a prayer no use. The sage and sober will negotiate the way with care, but not prince Valiant! The thrill is cheap as life, (what doesn’t kill you makes you strong as tin.) O down the icy night we ride until we crest the hill Over the Town, and like Chagall propelled we sound the stars, the flush - it pales the skin. Below, the streetlamps dot the ground. I search in dreams my empty tin, the golden coin to find therein. By day I search my empty tin, and hoard kind words, though paper thin . Valiant passengers, we are rendered fearless, lost within our involuted mother-sphere. Callowly I persevere. I march my youthful groundless road, steeled with middle-class veneer, polished in that spit-shine mode. Armoured in my tin, I showed the world a glow; and yet made not of solid stuff, I searched for gold. In time the sun-coined forest wrought a golden solace so long sought!
