'What time is it', asked the rock, who had turned to dust, and the voice replied,
'rise o-clock'
and the legend began.
Rumours ran rife that the man with no wife had returned, someone burned bushes in honour but that had been done before.
The rock that was dust blew away but returned as a man and I hear people say, Peter, you're cool, but Pete was no fool, he knew there was a reputation to salvage.
In Virginia on a blue ridge a cowboy, head slung low, which matched the slant of his guns
hummed tunes from a memory that his Ma' made in Yosemite a long time ago,
the man with no wife who was also a cowboy rode far into a canyon and it fired his imagination, and more bushes burned as he passed.
'Nothing new here my dear', he said to his horse and he talked to his horse more than he talked to most people.
By a steeple in Piza, leaning towards a disaster, a singer of ballads sat eating chorizo because even singers need to rest, It was Monday and the light burned which was a nice change from bushes.
'It'll never be the same, we should have left well alone' came a disjointed voice from an unworldly zone and that's the way of it, gods and aliens like to play a bit, sometimes the game gets away and they lose the plot and what have we got,?
Easters eggs and fun
bunnies watch them run as the sun
passes over the sky.
