My darling, I have begun to dream Of tractors, crossing The river Jordan From my mind spun a chronicle of death, foretold I began to think that in 100 years, solitude Will be afforded, there will be No more tractors, Or Lawnmowers, Or V8 engines, Just Silence, Love, So I shall not wake you in choleric times, I shall return To the memories of another; of melancholic insomnia That *****, that unwritten Love letter to the colonel, and think, You know, Earplugs may not be so bad.