Ruthie, Ann, Carol And Rachel

Ruthie, Rachel, Ann and Carol slept inside a cider barrel. It was summer and quite hot, though permission they had not. Came, on foot a travelling fellow carried rucksack, huge and yellow, sat his body near the barrel woke not Ruthie, Ann or Carol. Rachel though, was cloak and dagger daughter of a carpetbagger, raised her nose to hear and see what intruder this could be. Click, there goes the spark of ages it's when conscious thought engages, and finds nothing in arrears but the heart cries heavy tears. Hoibel was, let's call it bitten, Rachel, likewise felt quite smitten, so they wandered through the mountains, stopped to drink from rumbling fountains, never ever looking back, to the past's serpentine track. In the Spring they stopped to settle in a field of stinging nettle, built a house of logs and bark, made small lamps to light the dark. All alone they were contented, neither silly nor demented. Lived there, off the promised land with their own, delicious brand of a code to suit their feelings, far away from human dealings, found that Ruthy, Ann and Carol had escaped their crowded barrel, all were living now together, birds, they say, of one dear feather.