~~~ The Why Files ~~~

There's appointment with yore at th' brink o' e'ermore,

Where the light opens door to the shadow of the poor;

Thereth reaper, so grim thumbing books of our sin,

Meets the scythebreaker's cut who makes swift end of him.

Morn' executes night with stiletto-tipped rays,

'Pon His altar of creation, to bring us our days;

Whereth mourning of dew, vaporescence anew,

Pours her angel juice brew o'er the green, from the blue.

So rise up now ghyll, fen, ye hill and thee wold;

Ye wanderlust cloud unseen heav'n hast mold;

Pray, sing Him your song hid in fauna and flora;

Give praise to Good God of our Lord and the Torah.

THE END