As we crossed from green forest to hills of blue
and the yellow completely faded from view
I encountered the poem, Shropshire Lad,
written by Alfred Edward Housman when sad;
read at end of another fantasy lost
walkabout crossing the land of Oz,
as he also wrote of terrain with such a hue,
but while he longed to return to that view,
for me it was just another rainbow colour
on my journey to and fro, hither and dither.
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
After crossing along the deep blue ridge mountains, under sky blue we could see coral coves below with aquamarine water lapping turquoise sand. Standing on the beach were dozens of blue stones.
As we walked I thought about me and Green
meeting with the two funny chaps oh so keen
looking for the lonesome pine
in the blue ridged mountains
during our rambles across North America
when we were one werewolf and not a pair.
I thought we might meet MiMo Moby again, and it might have news of Green, because I remembered hearing it say something about Natural Blues.
I looked inside my cork hat, but could not see it; and threw my hat high into the air but this did not make MiMo materialise either.
Memories of better times with Green flooded through my mind, and this naturally made me feel blue.