Who Carved These Runes
Captain Hook and me we wander in the bloomin’
trades looking for our leader, druid of the desert.
We’ve gathered round the rock telling rooster tales,
decomposing sermons to ourselves and feeling lonesome
scaley underfoot, for the dragon he’s beguiled us
since we ate of that imperfect deed of fruit.
“Ne me touche pas,” we think but it does and we are
falling through the cracks where we have built our
selves a tower for to see (blind mutants that we are)
the sea, the shadow line at least beyond the surf.
Oddsbodskinman, he surely should appear to us
for we must know who carved these runes.
At least we thought he ought, for we remember
his gardens as imperfect gifts that rarely ripen.