There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a Mudcatter and a cat-like bird,
Who makes the solid trumpets sound again.
He says that blasts are old and that for foul airs
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
'Spaw says the early thunderfall is past
When blasts did clear the room in mighty showers
On sunny threads a moment overblast;
And comes that other ball we name the fall.
He says the Mudcat dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other goats
But that he knows in bleating not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but bleats
Is what to make of a diminished feat.

I pause, for paws, and spy
a little Joey Offer running by...

Roberta F.