I can be of sound or schock. I can either be calm or come crashing down with a mighty roar. Very rarely I become rogue, and therefore tales of Men, never to return.

I have a thousand roads, but I do not have the embrace of the sun. I am known for my trail of death.

Franklin sang my praises of that no one can deny, To gladly accept a pardon would not be a jive lie, In the end the bald contingency had their say, Yet I am still celebrated in a very special way.

One Bunny, a hunter, several birds, and a cat, just a few of the thousand all under my hat. Known hater of carrots, though I’d chew them for jokes. Been gone since nineteen eighty nine, so I guess that’s all folks.

By mountain’s root in pools I dwell, A name forgotten, lost to spell. Two voices weave my tattered will.. One whisper soft, one sharp and shrill.