Looking up at the sky, he tripped and fell.
Plummeting down the dried up well.
Twelve feet down.
Dark, dank, stinking.
Now, twice a day he looks up
The noonday sun
And the midnight moon.
And, when it’s lit down there it’s bright.
Otherwise, very dark.
A strangely swapping of places of an I and E,
at the maddened haberdasher’s tea party.