A hole, a hunk, a chunk of rock-
Where nothing bloomed, escape was sought-
To me has become a beacon of wonder-
A mortal ruin burst asunder.
A story, a bluff, a life long ago-
A sardonic sigh as they walked from the boat-
To me has become an interest so shallow-
Yet deep in the fat of my mind thick like tallow.
It asks a question to foolish romantics-
Why do we squirm and carry our antics-
Obsessive are we as we get off the boat.
And obsessive indeed we're the young, we're the dotes.
I see you old fool-
I see you I do-
Yet do you see me I know not
For asleep you may be, or dead with the key-
Yet you stand, you half-strange old rock.
