My ticket is in hand; the time draws nigh
When I will take unto the silvered sky
ANd leave the desert smoke and fire below
And to the far north of the nation go.
Then for a week I will meander
Like some long lost, tempest-torn Lysander
Into the mountainous wilds with all my will,
Where high winds face the high Olympic hills,
Where fogs and misted breezes prattle
Down to the sea, just northwest of Seattle.
Therefore be still, dear Mom, and strong of heart
For though we seperated be, we shall not part!
And when eight days have passed, will end your wait
By coming back to settle up your fate
And put young Rapp again upon the strait.

Adjustable T. Gollywobble
High Winds In the Early Spring