Twas a pitched course. At moving down it. At a breakneck pace. ‘Twar like a rare goat. Essential in the scape. But I hung in there tooth. And nail. That tried to turn me. From my weil at a round.
The goat saw a fork. And we made our escape.
One wee heel coming to level. And the other ready for. A good stomp downy at ground
Personal Writings 