A little brown cork
Fell in the path of a whale
Who lashed it down
With his angry tail.
But in spite of its blows
It quickly arose,
And floated serenely
Before his nose.
Said the cork to the whale:
"You may flap, slap, sputter and frown,
But you never, never, can keep me down;
For I'm made of the stuff
That is buoyant enough
To float instead of drown."
Though I see the end approaching - the end of the familiar, the rearrangement of the elements of beauty... I know that as the night presses it's ever-expanding claim, the things in which I put my faith will come most alive, and fight their undoing by rising up to their full and majestic height.
Here's to cork, and here's to you.
