In the rush of autumn; I heard a boom,
a voice that questioned "Are you ready, "
My heart skipped, raced and genuflected
I did not dare to answer, I did not dare not to reply
In a tattered corn field at summer's end.
the voice transferred to a scarecrow:
"We ain't playing, sonny. You better be ready,
ready or not."
I mouse-like squeaked: I guess I'm ready, I hope I'm..
Please, whoever you are. I'm just taking a stroll on the edge of winter.
The voice in the scarecrow now in a crow, gawked,
"For what then are you ready?"
"I'm ready to surrender," said I. And with that the fence
on which the crow was perched spoke in rails with a Scottish accent:
"Ready to die is ready to live." It was then I understood that there where I stood
I had been struck by lighting two times. Such luck was mine.
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