In the Surry Hills, one night, he made Foveaux Pas,

Where those in the front line were arty.

Yet he knew, as he looked at the night's rising star,

He'd gone past the date of the party.

He was far from the answers, yet ever so near

To quenching the question's agenda.

He had looked in each part of the West hemisphere,

And been a few people's defender.

So the sun's light went down, and the city's came on,

But this time he passed on the strolling,

Took the train on the North Shore, as building lights shone;

And someone's dropped coin started rolling.

He had shades in his fashion, and stock in the can,

And keys to remain in the region;

And he hoped what went on just next door to the San

(That week) would attract a new legion.

There'd be someone, who (all of the folks could attest)

Would turn out to be a great speaker,

Who would do everything that he could, to invest:

A stirring response from a seeker.

That's the speaker; but back to the Man-on-the-Go,

Who'd thrown in his lot (this occasion)

With a gathering, who'd sampled the sounds of Foveaux.

And taken a sudden evasion.

He was not one for trying, with others who tried

To climb out by further descending.

He believed that the answers were not found inside

Collected vain efforts unending.

So he took his own road, never knowing the score,

Yet sure that he'd worked on his aiming.

He could now split an apple (or its metaphor);

With further fruits there for the claiming.

Then he reached Middle-Haven, between his youth's home

And home of his future connection.

Then he rested himself on a mattress of foam,

Continuing soul circumspection.

He was low on ideas; but they always arrived

In time for a self-sourcing deadline.
He was often in danger; but still he survived,

By respecting the words on the red sign.

He was never too soon for a new change of race,

And varied his techniques of running.

Though he'd seen a few yester-goals clocked with a mace,

The sight of tomorrow's was stunning.