There will be no returning ship or big oil strike to make
your fortune
There will be no big prize
There will be no safe space
There will be no finish line this year
The blue line stretches into the distance
Heat seared granite as far as the eye can see
There’s an itch you cannot scratch
There’s an itch you cannot scratch
There’s an itch…
Written for Wordle 424 at The Sunday Whirl
