Old dark ruby coats his throat   Gloves a feathered mind.   Sharpens up her fountain pen   Lays ink down along the table.   Plaintive, brickyard textbook line   Whips her fable down   As long as she is able.      Bang up, wave the weaver's wand,   Hand against the sky.   Day is rain so watch things grow   Light pours through her window.   Tack will need a hefty breeze   Blow as though can be   As long as she is able.      Here's a loud that turns to wail   Salvage bits of wire.   Holding history blown to hell   He'll nod off and she will sing.   He won't dream while she won't sew.   Talking never stops   Not as long as she is able.      The next day holds a smell to it   Permeates the house.   Marches into each cold room   Stands as long as Sunday.   Preaches loud as elder ears   Years they'll rectify   As long as they're able.