We count twenty seven houses
And three men still left in them.
Twenty four are somewhere up.
A man whose son ditched wife
Is not now one of the three left.
Nor wife who was duly ditched .
That man whose Adam’s apple
Went up and down a hesitation
Is not one of three in the count.
Man who had greenest fingers
Is sowing grass seeds in a sky .
Sure he is not one of the three .
Soon there is nothing to count.
There will be nobody to count it.
The finger counts and moves up.