Only the dirt I do believe.nAs memory vanishes among the leaves.nnWizard of tickets is always glad to charge a pilgrim’s fare.nJubilee’s generally early. Let’s take the country air.nMistreating granite, limestone, and clay. It’s a shameful soil.nBut all grows well on the floodplain tract if you can afford the toil.nnCradled in ivy, we will allownthe moss to prosper upon our brows.nnBoxer rebellion, the Holy Child. They all pay their rent.nBut none together can testify to rhythm of a road well bent.nSaddles and zip codes, passports and gates, the Jones’ keep.nIn August the water is trickling, in April it’s furious deep.nnWizard of tickets is always glad to charge a pilgrim’s fare.nJubilee’s generally early. Let’s take the country air.nMistreating granite, limestone, and clay. It’s a shameful soil.nBut all grows well on the floodplain tract if you can afford the toil.nnOnly the dirt I do believe.nDivinity vanishes among the leaves.