Perfection

Perfection Last night I was back in the valley of my dreams a place where everyone wears clogs with uppers of leather that sometimes loosens; my job was to fasten the leather to the wood with nails that never rust and they said: 'tis man is a good cobbler's assistant, nifty with a hammer.” There was a picture-postcard village where one has to take the clogs off before entering, not as bad as it sounds because everyone wears woolly socks When it was decided that clocks disturb time they were banned, but dogs bark at noon the valley is a perfect place to live, alas the ting with perfection tends to be onerous, therefor I was glad when it was morning