oN transformatioN

Never forget the fella

who sits after M, before O,

without him, my friend, you’d be fried,

all things nice would feel like ice: cold.

Happy sand would be sad,

every band would be bad,

and bananas, like sheep, 

simply baaa.

So respect that letter,

just one past halfway,

who keeps windows from being widows,

everywhere, everyday.