The Gopher was born
Underground.  He spent so much
Of his life there.  His eyes never adjusted
To the lack of light, he simply
Tunneled in the dark, half-blind.
He never knew the color
Of his fur (it was brown, the same color
As the dirt he lived in (whose color
He never knew either)), but he assumed
It was black. While ambling through
The black (brown) soil, it so happened
That the plump and innocent Gopher
Unwittingly clawed his way to
The surface.  His dwarfish eyes scanned the fairway
Laid out beneath him.  It was in that brief moment
That he witnessed the difference
Between rough and fairway, saw white sand traps
Scoop out the sides of hills, and first watched
Red and yellow oak leaves
Drift to the ground.
And for this short while the Gopher was awestruck,
Riveted to the spot.  As the lawnmower’s blades
Swept closer, the Gopher could not move at all; and in
An instant, he returned to
The endless black he had come from.

In 1984, I assimilated this southern drawl and slow sly wit.
Whilst i felt so foreign, at first, and had to sit in the woods alone
and meditate, I met this one gopher tortoise one day. He slowly startled me when he stuck his long neck out and offered me a bite of a gopher apple.
It tasted like the bubble gum I used to get with Detroit Tiger baseball cards in. We slowly became best friends. I met his convex mate and others with his first name he generously shared his burrow with.
His home was home to crickets frogs and snakes, he asked me to join them.

I was too big, of head or ego, I really don't know, why I did not join him.
I still wander the woods where frequent fires have burned, and find on sand hills, among the creamy white flowers  
and ***** stems,
the gopher apples. And plant them in memory of my friend, so slow and wise.
I see him time to time,
but find him rare and rarer.

Just a story.
When I was a kid... yes there was a time I was a kid, the garden was just South of the house.  Mom and I worked in the garden a lot.  Sometimes when she was not in the garden I would lay between the carrot rows, pull a carrot out of the sandy soil, brush off the sand and have a very fresh yummy carrot.  They were soooo tender they seemed to melt in my mouth.  Anyway, when I was finished eating the carrot I would put the top back into the hole.  No one was the wiser.  No one knew the difference or so I thought.  I did notice the carrot top would wilt which looked a little suspicious but... there was a gopher problem so maybe the gophers ate the carrots.  Sounded like a good story to me.  "Did the gopher eat the carrot mom?" "Yes probably so."

I found out years later.... Mom knew who the gopher was.  BUSTED.

I was telling this story to my grand daughter Lucy after school one day.  Her eyes brightened up and said, "That is a funny story grandpa."  So here it is added to the memories of a grandpa.  Lucy keeps telling people, strangers even, "you should hear this. Grandpa tell them about the carrots."  The story has latched onto her 5 year old brain and won't let go.

So... the next time you are eating a carrot... don't fib to your mom.

I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan.

Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam.
Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.

The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I know in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart..    .    .
        After the sunburn of the day
        handling a pitchfork at a hayrack,
        after the eggs and biscuit and coffee,
        the pearl-gray haystacks
        in the gloaming
        are cool prayers
        to the harvest hands.

In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse.
On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the wheels..    .    .
I am here when the cities are gone.
I am here before the cities come.
I nourished the lonely men on horses.
I will keep the laughing men who ride iron.
I am dust of men.

The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher.
You came in wagons, making streets and schools,
Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse,
Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw,
You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl,
You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat,
I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother
To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay,
The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago
Marching single file the timber and the plain.

I hold the dust of these amid changing stars.
I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like,
While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men.
I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days.
Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun,
I who have seen the red births and the red deaths
Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait.

Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley?
Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?.    .    .
        Rivers cut a path on flat lands.
        The mountains stand up.
        The salt oceans press in
        And push on the coast lines.
        The sun, the wind, bring rain
        And I know what the rainbow writes across the east or west in a half-circle:
        A love-letter pledge to come again..    .    .
      Towns on the Soo Line,
      Towns on the Big Muddy,
      Laugh at each other for cubs
      And tease as children.

Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up.
Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up..    .    .
Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke-out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise-out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples-
Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want.
Out of log houses and stumps-canoes stripped from tree-sides-flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims-in the years when the red and the white men met-the houses and streets rose.

A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth.

In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter's chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat.

To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake.
I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short..    .    .
What brothers these in the dark?
What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon?
These chimneys shaking on the lumber shanties
When the coal boats plow by on the river-
The hunched shoulders of the grain elevators-
The flame sprockets of the sheet steel mills
And the men in the rolling mills with their shirts off
Playing their flesh arms against the twisting wrists of steel:
        what brothers these
        in the dark
        of a thousand years?.    .    .
A headlight searches a snowstorm.
A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin.

In the morning hours, in the dawn,
The sun puts out the stars of the sky
And the headlight of the Limited train.

The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled.
A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie.

The horses fathom a snow to their knees.
Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills.
The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats..    .    .
Keep your hogs on changing corn and mashes of grain,
    O farmerman.
    Cram their insides till they waddle on short legs
    Under the drums of bellies, hams of fat.
    **** your hogs with a knife slit under the ear.
    Hack them with cleavers.
    Hang them with hooks in the hind legs..    .    .
A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning.
Sprinkles of dew on the crimson-purple *****.
The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses.
The farmer's daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair..    .    .
On the left-and right-hand side of the road,
        Marching corn-
I saw it knee high weeks ago-now it is head high-tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears..    .    .
I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting.
They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens.
They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges.
They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market.
They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire..    .    .
The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands.
There is no let-up to the wind.
Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins.

Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o'clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled.
The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches-among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain-they keep old things that never grow old.

The frost loosens corn husks.
The Sun, the rain, the wind
        loosen corn husks.
The men and women are helpers.
They are all cornhuskers together.
I see them late in the western evening
        in a smoke-red dust..    .    .
The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight,
The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a **** in a treetop at midnight, chewing a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib,
The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a forty-acre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall,
These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights.
"The shapes that are gone are here," said an old man with a cob pipe in his teeth one night in Kansas with a hot wind on the alfalfa..    .    .
Look at six eggs
In a mockingbird's nest.

Listen to six mockingbirds
Flinging follies of O-be-joyful
Over the marshes and uplands.

Look at songs
Hidden in eggs..    .    .
When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God's Heaven.
When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose.
When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way..    .    .
Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: "Any new songs for me? Any new songs?"

O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting-your lover comes-your child comes-the years creep with toes of April rain on new-turned sod.
O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back-
There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley..    .    .
O prairie mother, I am one of your boys.
I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water..    .    .
I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
  a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
  only an ocean of to-morrows,
  a sky of to-morrows.

I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say
  at sundown:
        To-morrow is a day.

O Viking Gods of the Norse,
you governed the mighty seas.
your boats were built of gopher wood;
and you made wise use of a breeze!

Smelly Feet

In the sun, feel the heat,
and the odor of my smelly feet.
All people squeezing their nose,
from the cheese between my toes.
Shoes melted on the road,
smell spreading to the next zip code.
Even I'm wearing a gas mask,
sipping whiskey from my flask.
Feet burning as I start to run,
stick a fork in them, they're done.
Still a mile left to go,
I can see my feet as they glow.
Leaving melting skin far behind,
left sunglasses home and going blind.
Hot tar starting to melt,
I'd do anything for a conveyor belt.
Soaking feet when I get home,
Pretty soon, I will see bone.
My house is just down the block,
vultures circling as they stalk.
Getting worse is the odor,
laughing at me is the Caddyshack gopher.
The Rock wants to know what I'm cooking,
it's my feet, that is brewing.
The smell is spreading worldwide,
my feet are now Kentucky fried.
People cheer as I reach my door,
**** my feet are very sore.
Sprayed my feet with tough acting Tinactin,
burned so bad it melted the rest of my skin.
Soaked my bones in cold water,
never have I felt a road more hotter.
Sprayed Fabreze for about an hour,
then I took a long cold shower.
Moonshine and pain pills dull my pain,
it was my own fault so can't complain.
Now I wear special shoes,
my smelly ***** feet even made the news.

My mound is wet
Probably due to the weather
Lots of rain

It hurts to be a gopher
Small and furry
Yet sublime

The combo of cuteness and evil
Is damning
Leads to bleeding

Getting stuck in L.A. tubs
Fleeing from Sheba the cat
Fighting for grannies' vegetables

There is nothing here
No noteworthy existence
Just all the disturbances

The squirrels played havoc around the house,
picking stuffing from the porch swing,
packing it into their cheeks, until they were swollen,
pregnant, to fluff their nests with synthetic cotton.

They bounded about the yard stopping to squeeze
fallen walnuts, like supermarket melons, to see
if they were ripe or rotten.  Their neighbors,
the gopher and raccoon and rabbit

were overrun by the squirrels myriad brood.
Some (squirrels) sought refuge in refuse, chewing large
holes in the trash bins. This would feed many a raccoon’s
hungry mouth, but none of them would show thanks.

When the numbers began to spill over from the trees,
the squirrels began occupying the gutters, causing sheets
of ice to cataract, frozen down the sides of the house,
and then when the old man found stuffing from his swing

in the attic, enough had become enough. Something
had to be done. This blatant malfeasance must
be dealt with, and so he would devise a plan, a trap.
The old man stood watching the plump little devils

bounce and leap around his yard, when he saw the bin.
And wriggling the fingers on his upturned paw, a sinister
plan curled onto his face in a dark smile.  He went out
to the trash bin and filled it with water, only halfway,

no more. He dropped a lightly pumped, bald
basketball into the bin, and smiled when the first
squirrel drowned in it. Everyday, the old man wriggled
his fingers and smiled his dark smile,

until he found synthetic swing stuffing
in his bed, and realized he had lost.

You ever wish that you were a wild animal?

Sounds a bit indecent, but reckoning the sense of freedom, order, and understandings
;then, you'll look at it through a bird's eye

Doesn't it seem like animals have no issues at finding their purposes?
They seem to know exactly what is it, in which what they are living for
Oppose to us humans, they seem to be less frightened by death
Do you think animals have religious beliefs?
Some divine stranger they must let control their life.
Or are they responsible enough themselves?
And/or only have faith in what it mean to live
...Just live

The things in which they used to do is still their tendencies today.
Give me one lion that don't hunt anymore?
One pack or tribe that is ran by female?
One chimpanzee who think swinging from trees is out of style?
One shark who think blood is disgusting?
I never met a gopher who wasn't hip enough, who didn't "dig"; digging wholes
Every cat I know rub their skull, ribs, backbone, tailbone and tail; in one motion against other creatures for what I figure as comfort.
Shepherd, Yorkshire, or hound; however, they all get on the mailman's nerves

Humans... We just seem lost
Not knowing where we belong
Steady trying to figure out right for wrong
Attitudes always going up or down
Need to much to crack a smile
The slightest ordeal can make us frown
A successful human is visioned as having access to the whole world

Do you ever see a honey bee left behind in a swarm?
Or a polar bear climbing a tree when it's warm?

Their world has no critics
No trends
No high expectations

Just eat, sleep, and ****

Is that it?
Or there's more to it?
Two separate lives
But I'm influenced

The departure of the swallows took place on                                
My birthday this year, winter began.
They’re beautiful birds aren’t they Chris. Grasp the hand slowly.
Oh and it’s mild weather we’re having isn’t it?
Just splendid for a chance to wander through the forest.

Every man’s got a field to plow but where will I harvest              
When my niche ran south just to sit amongst the rats
And converse through the evening about Ivan’s insecurities.
Edward, grasp me quick and sever me from society.
Sip from the spring, grab a loaf and run cause
I’ve grown reckless and thrown off my yoke.                              
This young man is naturally far ahead of time,
That’s from the nurture of his hard of hearing mother Catherine.  
Where do I rest where do I eat, the dust in my mind
Is subjected to a sweeping repeat without being collected.
A slow rise, I hate taking off the covers but this night I walked
Without them yea I was nocturnal negation of Shadrach.
And boy you’ve taken far too long to deliver the paper!
My coffee’s been hot for half an hour and cold for two.
(Tap on the window) Excuse me which way is Beersheba?          
Now I know you know so please just bare with me and listen.
Yea yea Jason get out of here I know those tricks, I’ll
Get there some day and when I do it’ll all be worth it
Don’t you dear try to break my ankles. Hey drop the razor
Little boy you can’t shave yet and November is approaching.
Nothings equal to this and everything I’ve ever know
Makes perfect sense now, the explanation is certainly
The longest. Where have I been all my life,
Were you hiding under the desk waiting for an atomic
Bomb to drop, no I was just sitting in the subway counting
Change when the little black girl came up to me and
Asked me for two dollars so I gave her four and somehow
Five turned back to nine, the paper transported, my split
Identity got sewn back together and the cosmos is on my side.

Oh extra large I know what you’re talkin about.
Out there I walked through walls let me circumvent
Iron and brick with a gaseous coronary torrent.
I’ll eat my own heart out with one gentle bite
And smash that lime against the wall at your words.
I grow tired…
I need to get out of here I need to get out of here.
Through the yellow hallways around the corner open the green door.
I want to be on the top bunk so I can see the son rise,
After all that’s me don’t you know, genetically Japanese.
Get down from there!
Like a monkey? Okay!
I am the greyhound come to eat the wolf, just let me out.
These feathers are not clipped yet you can’t do this
(As long as I know right from wrong I’ll be okay I’ll sing my song)
I’ve seen them do it on TV just follow through…
**** the wrong force broke, just gotta set this straight.
What the hell are you doing kid?
I don’t know ask him.
And then he said tighten the bolt it’s gonna fall apart.
Yea the center cannot hold.
Gophers are amazing creatures you know, it’s not easy to tunnel under ground.
But if you’re not a gopher don’t go down the hole,
You might get lost.
I took a trip up to Lake Placid last summer, my kids loved it.
I’ve been holding my breath for five days now.
What’s this muscular leprechaun doing in my way,
If I could get those keys off your belt I could probably **** you.
Try it and I’ll break your head.
That’s a good idea, maybe then the light
Will finally be turned out.
Try repelling all of the moisture from your cells
Well now I guess now I just need to wait for my pants to dry.

Opening my mouth for a female will corrupt me.
Okay stapler I hear you but this is serious now,
Almost time for Vinny to come south. I have no need
For ink anymore check the flesh tattoo it’ll spit out a seed.
Stick that tranquilizer in me, I will remain tranquil and awake,
While I stare at the wall and connect unseen signs with familiar phrases.
You’re dreaming kid, no I’m reopening the wells of my father.    
Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Dan, Naphtali, Gad, Asher,
Issachar, Zebulun, Joseph, Benjamin.
Hey have you seen this kids coat?
It’s far away but you can find me where I wrote.

Sear me sear me I see it coming anyway
Wait wait wait, I take it all back.

These are the gardens of the Desert, these
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,
For which the speech of England has no name--
The Prairies. I behold them for the first,
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch
In airy undulations, far away,
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,
Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed,
And motionless for ever.--Motionless?--
No--they are all unchained again. The clouds
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,
***** his broad wings, yet moves not--ye have played
Among the palms of Mexico and vines
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide
Into the calm Pacific--have ye fanned
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this?
Man hath no part in all this glorious work:
The hand that built the firmament hath heaved
And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes
With herbage, planted them with island groves,
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor
For this magnificent temple of the sky--
With flowers whose glory and whose multitude
Rival the constellations! The great heavens
Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,--
A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue,
Than that which bends above the eastern hills.

  As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed,
Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides
The hollow beating of his footstep seems
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those
Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here--
The dead of other days?--and did the dust
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life
And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds
That overlook the rivers, or that rise
In the dim forest crowded with old oaks,
Answer. A race, that long has passed away,
Built them;--a disciplined and populous race
Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms
Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock
The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields
Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed,
When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,
And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke.
All day this desert murmured with their toils,
Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed
In a forgotten language, and old tunes,
From instruments of unremembered form,
Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came--
The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce,
And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.
The solitude of centuries untold
Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf
Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den
Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone--
All--save the piles of earth that hold their bones--
The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods--
The barriers which they builded from the soil
To keep the foe at bay--till o'er the walls
The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,
The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped
With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood
Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres,
And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast.
Haply some solitary fugitive,
Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense
Of desolation and of fear became
Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die.
Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind words
Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors
Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose
A bride among their maidens, and at length
Seemed to forget,--yet ne'er forgot,--the wife
Of his first love, and her sweet little ones,
Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race.

  Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise
Races of living things, glorious in strength,
And perish, as the quickening breath of God
Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too,
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long,
And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought
A wilder hunting-ground. The ****** builds
No longer by these streams, but far away,
On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back
The white man's face--among Missouri's springs,
And pools whose issues swell the Oregan,
He rears his little Venice. In these plains
The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp,
Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake
The earth with thundering steps--yet here I meet
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.

  Still this great solitude is quick with life.
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,
And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man,
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer
Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee,
A more adventurous colonist than man,
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,
Within the hollow oak. I listen long
To his domestic hum, and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude
Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.

Time to write a poem, time to write a rhyme  
Write about the world, and the end of time  
-
This happened once before, right before the Flood  
Noah built an ark, made of gopher wood  
-
As in the days of Noah, people running to and fro  
So busy busy busy, yet they know not where they go  
-
The world that was then, was drowned in water deep  
The world that is now, will become a burning heap  
-
The Book of Revelation is soon to be fulfilled  
First Seal is soon to break, you could very well be killed