(Does one, despite one's wandering
through PlaysWell, ever hear Bill sing...?)
‘Twas sev'ral years ago last Spring,
when bygone times were still "the thing"...
...and mulling ‘em was in full swing.
I’d tired of reading Deng Xiaoping...
...and Dr. Martin Luther King
when, practicing my highland fling,
I met a man call'd William Ding.
Bill's coat – pale wenge, a coloring...
...like nutmeg more than anything --
had suffer'd stubborn static cling.
Bill's diction bore a certain ring,
a slang I’d slung when visiting...
in search of high-grade yoyo string.
As I stood eyeing Mr. Ding,
he faded -- like a bathtub ring.
No matter what your morrows bring,
I doubt you'll spot an odder thing.
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