The Ballad of Who and What

There was no one around for leagues,
And wearied with the day’s fatigues,
We stopped a while to stretch our limbs
With Who and What our pseudonyms

Who asked me why I’d come this far –
What told her it was just a car –
And Who and What could bide their time
Out here where jokes were not a crime

I know that all we’d done was kid
Like Abbot and Costello did;
But Who and What we thought we were
Is hard to know or to infer

For though our names are always nouns
(Some we misspell or mispronounce)
It is by pronouns we are known
Just him or her to call their own

And in the desert, Who gave out
To What the trip was all about;
For know one knew quite what to do
With God-knows-What and Lord-knows-Who

And so deserted, there we stayed
And withal What the words we played;
As Who knew what we really meant
When day was done and light was spent

There is no more that I can say.
It was a trip, a time, a day —
And What was left there still to rot?
Well, Who can say –
But she
Will not

Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

3 thoughts on “The Ballad of Who and What”

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