Georgie ran with the wind in his fur, Out of Springfield, through nights that still burn. No papers, no past, just paws on the ground, A ghost in the smoke, too lost to be found. He hated the shrubs that clawed at his soul, Thorns of the past taking their toll. Each step through the darkness, he longed for a light, A place where the shrub would fade from his sight. Doctor Graham under the Pantone skies, Walks little Georgie to his vast emerald mine. His spare time so vast and free, unfettered...