The Well Runs Dry

Couched in the concept of a well, (which supplied the water for faded glory of "Glen Elm)," my boyhood abode, another metaphorical attempt at writer's block - aid, here attempting to reference (former Leiper estate re: early twentieth century demesne) across avast tract, which bestrode approximately a hundred acres enshrined sanctuary, (yet whittled down to about a half dozen acres, when Boyce Harris made purchase circa February 28th 1968), sans plethora paradise of flora and fauna once code did ecologic niche, now...long since transformed into ticky tack vinyl city servicing twenty first century materialistic cushy (on tushy) sedentary worker dog tired to pen a ditty (butta no mien mean manual laborer, neither grubby nor gritty) propertied class i.e. bourgeoisie), whence about a century gone by, where wild woods would still have been agreeable to the ghost of Walter Mitty, or John James Audubon (born Jean Rabin; April 26, 1785 – January 27, 1851, an American ornithologist, naturalist, and painter), who would pity fully unleash torrential tears, nor witty countenance supposedly progress this eighteenth year since advent of second millennium bench marked based on start of common era at expense, where countless animals and plants veer really didst vanish, ah swell as a pond attracting Canadian Geese (they honked in French), now...there tis nary a trace of former Currier and Ives bucolic scene, aye swear not e'en a sparse copse pier reed (and exclamation point) argh near re: zero vestige of vanished rural expanse mere lee cookie cutter (look alike) family dwellings brave lee evicting, jack knifing, and crave vin lee over laying pastoral enclave iniquitous (courtesy of Neilson, and flave er flave Gambone Brothers), rendered grave bounty viz Anne Xing Mother Nature's brethren and cistern did pave a successful accomplishment measured by (Ole) standard in parlance and accorded rave, ving reviews, asper a job welled (weld) done, where only legally tendered bucks fate didst save!