A timbre shore
A novel thing
When sand or rocks
Are we’s expecting
A wooden beach
A billion matches
Not drifting far
No empty patches
Not sunned enough
To be bonfired
Not old enough
Not petrified
Just young enough
To lie about
To love the weather
And rounding out
Will trip a boy
Will snare a man
Will keep coast clear
Of a traffic plan
Just what Doctor
Ordered this bay
Rehabilitation
The Ancient’s way
