in the eighteenth minute of the eighteenth hour
jonathon watson picked a flower
then the hitchhiked into town
because the country was getting him down
jonathon’s driver wore a frown
his name was william brown
his brow was furrowed and his visage grim
something about jonathon bothered him
as they pursued their destination
william tried to start a conversation
he tried more than once
but jonathon responded with grunts
outside in the darkness a snake slithered
william felt his being wither
why he had done this he could not say
would he live to see another day?
the road sped by like a cat
smooth black and flat
william looked from the corner of his eye
jonathon looked like he was starting to cry
suddenly william’s brain was clear
he knew there was nothing to fear
in the nineteenth minute of the nineteenth hour
he would pick his own flower
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