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Bone Carver 5: The Bone Worms

Bone Carver V
The Bone Worms


BONE CARVER V

- The Bone Worms -



" A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king,
and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm."- - Shakespeare


        Just before dawn, my Grandfather 
        Comes into my room to awaken me.
        But I am already awake,
        Have long been awake.
        Sleep is like a dream to me now,
        Something I once did in ignorance,
        The bad habit of a dull child.
        Night has become a screen for visions,
        A radiance illuminates my thoughts,
        Makes them transparent,
        Projects them outwards beyond me.
        They are as seductive, as compelling,
        To the attention as a rusty nail
        Through a bare foot. Indeed, surreal.

        I pass through this darkness
        In a babble of supplication and confession,
        Closing and opening my eyes
        So often that all distinctions
        Of mere physical realities give way
        To the greater convictions of the mind,
        Preaching sacred fire
        From within the skull's prison.

        I spend the currency of my dream's time
        In a fever nurtured by deliberate infection,
        The germ of a singular dream
        Of a singular fish.
        This ecstatical desire for unity.
        And this thinking, not the thing, 
        Overfills my mind with its presence,
        Lapping over the borders of my awareness,
        Spilling over in a constant cataract
        Of surpassment, overcoming,
        Of my entire being

        The instant my Grandfather calls out
        For me to:

        - Rise and shine.

        I fall back into the lesser reality,
        Falling down into the dull dream of the body,
        Worlds trailing though my fingers like clouds,
        My memory blanking and zeroing
        Before the sublime complexity
        Of even the most minute,
        Insignificant fragment.

        I look at my Grandfather in amazement,
        As if he had just walked out of a simple illustration
        On the page of a children's story book.
        He is barely real to me.
        His words though,
        They resonate, sound forth
        From realms beyond his existence:

        - Rise and shine.
        Shake those dreams from your head.
        The fish are already up and biting.
        Come up from the deeps
        While the sun's still hiding.

        So we walk down to the Boathouse,
        Which is a commotion of activity.
        The Bone Carver has prepared each boat
        With supplies: refreshments for the long morning,
        Fixed poles, new line, gleaming hooks,
        Mended nets, rewired baskets, sharpened gaffs,
        Minnow buckets, cricket cages, and worm cans.
        The tackleboxes have been checked
        And replenished, ordered, opened.

        The Ten Great Barges are filling
        With those who, for whatever desperate reason,
        Don't have their own boat.
        And all the Fisherman are loud and boastful,
        Promising and prophesying about the big ones
        That they are going to empty the Lake of today,
        Apologizing to the other Fishermen in advance
        For catching all the fish they might be fishing for.

        As my grandfather takes the boat out,
        I see the Bone Carver standing
        At that last plankway, over that empty dock.
        He looks up and waves and me.
        I wave back, knowing with sickness
        That none of us that were going out
        Were going to be anywhere near
        To catching the Big One.

        Later on, we return,
        The sun having driven us back into the shadows.
        The Fishermen all console themselves
        Over the sad lot of fish they have so easily caught,
        Their language empty of conviction,
        Full of defeat, reeking with notion
        That it was all, after all, only a pastime.

        I remain in the Boathouse
        Abject and alone,
        Sitting inside the stark interior
        Of my Grandfather's boat.
        His enormous tacklebox
        Is spread open before me,
        Its trays and compartments full
        Of all shape and manner of lure.

        I remove each one,
        Hold it before me high,
        Letting the hooks dangle,
        Passing it thought the air,
        Interrogating myself without mercy:
        If I were the Big One,
        Is this what would attract me?
        Would I hunger to take this lure
        Deep into my soul?

        I torture myself thusly:
        Silver spoons, shakers, shimmiers,
        Wet worms, wigglers, wobblers,
        Broken bobbers, bumpers, breakers,
        Flying french perversions, flickers,
        Trebled spinnners, sleek shifters,
        Lures so alluring you do feel slight temptation
        To swallow them down yourself,
        Imitations, replications, reproductions,
        All in endless repetition and reflection
        Of a prime archetypal object of desire.

        And not a single one of them would work.
        I could tell this naturally,
        Without being able to explain exactly why.
        All of them were too fashioned,
        Too made, artificial.
        I closed the tacklebox carefully
        And lay down in the bottom of the boat.
        Slightly rocking upon the lake's slow hand,
        Contemplating the dark rafters above:

        Old heavy poles racked amidst spider's webs
        And nest of dirt dobber and wasp.
        Planks of wood gone gray with time.
        Coils of weighted troutline 
        On colored blocks indicating length.
        And the black knots in the wood,
        The richness of the grain,
        The simple construction of a roof.
        All of these entranced my attentions.

        The wasps were tending to their nests,
        Bringing in wood pulp and food,
        Flying back out, disappearing in the sunlight.
        I could imagine those white larvae
        Hungry in their tight hexagons,
        Black wings forming under pale skin.
        And I had the insight that right there,
        At the point of metamorphosis,
        That they would be the perfect bait
        To catch the Big One.
        In my mind there: 
        The silver hook shining
        Between two domed eyes.

        In such a state of reverie,
        I didn't sense the approaching presence
        Of the Bone Carver.
        Then, a lit match arced before me,
        Spun into the nest from out of his hand,
        Caught the gray egg combs on fire,
        Sent the wasps into a frenzy,
        A few burning, falling
        With the fragments of the nest
        Into the black water of the lake.
        A school of bream shot up at them,
        Bubbling the rings of their descent.

        I turned to face him.
        He was smiling with amusement,
        Smoking his pipe in quick bursts.
        I spoke:

        - They'd make even better bait
        If they weren't on fire.

        The Bone Carver laughed, as usual.
        Said back:

        - Mite be. Mite be.
        But ah mose certanlee
        Woodnt wanna be dat won try
        Stick a hook troo won.
        No siree.

        He took up a pole and brushed down
        The remains of the nest.
        A few angry wasps circled his head
        But none stung.
        I asked:

        - What kind of bait would you use
        To catch the Big One?

        - Dat be neethur heer nor dere,
        Cuz ah don has no desire ta catch
        Dat won. Get dat? It be your hunger
        Dat make you dream bowt dat One.
        So you got ask your own self:
        What it would be dat you be wantin?

        - But I've been doing that all afternoon.
        I've gone through this entire tacklebox
        Trying to figure out which lure would work.

        - An you speck dat dis most portant Big Won
        Gonna be wantin sumtin any po fool
        Can go get at da store? I tell you what:
        Dat Won don care nothin fo dese dreem lures,
        Dat Won got hunger for real thins.
        You wanna try catch him wit lil pieces o flesh,
        Chop up lil pieces o da Meat,
        Aint never gon happun.
        Dat Won gonna want onlee affer won thin,
        Sames as you: da Bone.
        Da Bone o your desire be only sorta thin
        Gon catch dat Big Won.
        Yessahree, dat shore be troof.

        I sat there, staring into the bottom
        Of my Grandfather's boat,
        Trying to sort it out.
        But I couldn't separate my desire
        From my dream of the Big One.
        I told the Bone Carver:

        - I have no idea what
        The Bone of my desire is.

        - Datsa start. Problem witchoo is dat
        You got da Bone buried too deep in da dream.
        You gotsta get rid o some o dat Meat
        Keepin you from seein da Bone
        Aint never gon catch dat Big Won
        Tils you can sees dat Bone
        Dat makes you so wants to catch it.
        Watchoo gonna need is
        Messo sum Bone Wurms.

        - I've never heard of them.

        - Shore you has. Everee bodee
        Know bowt da Bone Wurms sooner o latur,
        Usually latur, but day all know.
        Bone Wurms is dose lil critturs
        Dat love to eat dat dreem meet.
        Day eat yo face right off,
        Eat yo brain and hart,
        Eat yo eyes and guts,
        Eat eat eat to get down to da Bone.
        Cuz dere aint nuthin a Bone Wurm
        Like bettur dan sittin an singin
        On a cleen white Bone.

        - So what: do I have to dig up a grave
        To find these Bone Worms?

        - Aint no need to dig up no bodee.
        You got a good meaty won rite here.
        Fact is: Bone Wurm hep you get down
        To da Bone o yourseff, hep you see
        Whas dere unnerneath da Meat.
        Tell you what:
        You come on git owt o dat ole boat
        An ahll shows howto get a buncho Bone Wurms.
        Likkety split, yess sahh reee.

        The Bone Carver held out his hard hand
        And I took it, steeping out
        Of my Grandfather's full of fear
        But entirely seduced by the possiblities
        He was offering.

        We set out towards Hidden Lake,
        Which fed into the Lake proper
        From far back in the Piney Woods.
        An old road turned a twisted way
        Through the trees, ponds, and spriings.
        I had walked down it many times.

        We walked over the Dam,
        Not talking, taking our time.
        My thoughts settled down
        To the steady pace
        I kept with the Bone Carver.
        There: just taking my time away.

        The evening spread out across the horizon.
        Turkey settled to roost
        In the highest limbs,
        Hieroglyphic silhouettes of patience.
        Deer and quail stilled around our passage.
        Owl and bat flushed and fluttered
        The approaching darkness forth.

        By the time we made it to Hidden Lake,
        The was full of stars,
        And a waning moon was on the rise.
        The floor of the Piney Woods
        Appeared silver, soft, silently
        Absorbing our stepping though.
        Hidden Lake was somewhere ahead,
        Its waters lapping amidst
        The rhythmic howls and cries
        Of frogs and insects.

        We turned and turned again,
        Away from the water,
        Emerged from the high canopy of the Pines,
        And came out upon a slight hill,
        The crest of which was crowned
        By a tall and twisted tree.

        As we neared,
        I could see that it had been struck
        Long ago be lightning,
        A black seam ran its length.
        The tree must have grown on
        Beyond that event.
        But as a wretched thing,
        Gnarling and deforming
        Out of the wound at its core.

        The Bone Carver stopped before it,
        Turned to me, said:

        - Dis be onlee place in dese parts
        Where you can find da Bone Wurms
        Livin an workin bov da grown.

        I moved closer to the tree's trunk,
        Could see no sign of any living thing,
        Even though the moon
        Was approaching zenith.
        I asked:

        - Are you sure?
        I can't see anything at all.
        Where are they?

        The Bone Carver place his hand
        On the back of my neck,
        Looked up, told me:

        - Bone Wurms be up dere
        Mongst awl dose branches.
        You gonna hasta climbs up dere.
        Day not gonna comes down to you,
        Lessen you bury youseff in da grown.

        And he laughed happily to himself
        As he sat down with his back against the tree,
        And took out his pipe.

        I looked to the Bone Carver.
        I looked up at the tree.
        I thought about what he had told me
        About the Bone Wurms.
        Asked him:

        - What do I catch them with?
        And what do I put them in when I do?

        - Juss get on up dere, you see.
        Its you dats gonna tract em,
        Your Meat an your Bones.
        Now get on up for dat ole moon
        Gets over da top o da sky.

        And so, I climbed up the tree,
        The Bone Carver urging me higher and higher
        Until I sat in the uppermost branches.
        My fears at first were that the dead limbs
        Would not hold me.
        But they were strong,
        Even at the highest point.
        Then my fear shifted
        As I waited for the Bone Wurm to appear,
        Acutely aware of every itch and tickle
        On my skin. And I waited on.

        The Bone Carver was directly below me,
        And the sweet smoke from his pipe
        Comforted and relaxed me.

        The moon was now falling,
        The stars wheeling above,
        The night had grown silent.
        The sweet smoke curling inside me
        Distant, dark, and deep,
        Swirling, waiting, drifting,
        Dreaming.

        Ten Bone Worms dripped out
        Of the dark wound of the dead tree,
        Dribbled up the twisted way
        To caress my skin in spiral trailings.

        The hair on my skin rippled
        In waves of windlike ecstasy
        As the tiny white Bone Worms
        Wove their way around me.
        Oozing up my spine,
        Seven Bone Worms to my head.
        Two slithered over my thighs.
        One circled over my belly.
        And poised with the promise
        Of terrible pleasure,
        They each waited outside
        Each of my openings,
        Burning to turn inside
        And devour my Meat.

        And I rocked in the twisted limbs
        Of the dead tree,
        Riding the waves of the dream,
        Higher and higher,
        Forgetting everything
        In the ecstasy.
        The Bone Worms 
        Singing forth the Meat of me.

        And when I thought I could go no higher,
        I fell backwards, off the twisted branch.
        And out of the dead tree,
        Every hard limb of dead twist
        Violently shaking me awake
        As I tumbled down
        Screaming:

        - Get them off of me!

        Over and over,
        Rolling around on the ground
        Before the Bone Carver,
        Who was laughing so hard
        That he was doubled over
        Sahking nearly as much as I.

        I stripped off my clothes,
        Slapping and striking my body,
        Until I counted ten tiny Bone Worms
        Puddling upon the ground.

        The Bone Carver recovered
        From his great joke on me enough
        To push over his tall black hat,
        Which I turned over
        And quickly placed
        The Bone Worms inside of.
        
*** 
On the way back to the Boathouse
felt something biting my palm
opened and saw moth... bone worm mutating...
xxxx
bone worms turning into moths ?????

We better hurry.

changed instantly
No words for metamorphosis.
something when the bone became flesh
***
Poetry is made at the edge of running water.
- R. Graves





***

BONE CARVER V
- The Bone Worms -

***

" A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king,
and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm."
- - Shakespeare

***

Just before dawn, my Grandfather 
Comes into my room to awaken me.
But I am already awake,
Have long been awake.
Sleep is like a dream to me now,
Something I once did in ignorance,
The bad habit of a dull child.
Night has become a screen for visions,
A radiance illuminates my thoughts,
Makes them transparent,
Projects them outwards beyond me.
They are as seductive, as compelling,
To the attention as a rusty nail
Through a bare foot. Indeed, surreal.

I pass through this darkness
In a babble of supplication and confession,
Closing and opening my eyes
So often that all distinctions
Of mere physical realities give way
To the greater convictions of the mind,
Preaching sacred fire
From within the skull's prison.

I spend the currency of my dream's time
In a fever nurtured by deliberate infection,
The germ of a singular dream
Of a singular fish.
This ecstatical desire for unity.
And this thinking, not the thing, 
Overfills my mind with its presence,
Lapping over the borders of my awareness,
Spilling over in a constant cataract
Of surpassment, overcoming,
Of my entire being

The instant my Grandfather calls out
For me to:

- Rise and shine.

I fall back into the lesser reality,
Falling down into the dull dream of the body,
Worlds trailing though my fingers like clouds,
My memory blanking and zeroing
Before the sublime complexity
Of even the most minute,
Insignificant fragment.

I look at my Grandfather in amazement,
As if he had just walked out of a simple illustration
On the page of a children's story book.
He is barely real to me.
His words though,
They resonate, sound forth
From realms beyond his existence:

- Rise and shine.
Shake those dreams from your head.
The fish are already up and biting.
Come up from the deeps
While the sun's still hiding.

So we walk down to the Boathouse,
Which is a commotion of activity.
The Bone Carver has prepared each boat
With supplies: refreshments for the long morning,
Fixed poles, new line, gleaming hooks,
Mended nets, rewired baskets, sharpened gaffs,
Minnow buckets, cricket cages, and worm cans.
The tackleboxes have been checked
And replenished, ordered, opened.

The Ten Great Barges are filling
With those who, for whatever desperate reason,
Don't have their own boat.
And all the Fisherman are loud and boastful,
Promising and prophesying about the big ones
That they are going to empty the Lake of today,
Apologizing to the other Fishermen in advance
For catching all the fish they might be fishing for.

As my grandfather takes the boat out,
I see the Bone Carver standing
At that last plankway, over that empty dock.
He looks up and waves and me.
I wave back, knowing with sickness
That none of us that were going out
Were going to be anywhere near
To catching the Big One.

Later on, we return,
The sun having driven us back into the shadows.
The Fishermen all console themselves
Over the sad lot of fish they have so easily caught,
Their language empty of conviction,
Full of defeat, reeking with notion
That it was all, after all, only a pastime.

I remain in the Boathouse
Abject and alone,
Sitting inside the stark interior
Of my Grandfather's boat.
His enormous tacklebox
Is spread open before me,
Its trays and compartments full
Of all shape and manner of lure.

I remove each one,
Hold it before me high,
Letting the hooks dangle,
Passing it thought the air,
Interrogating myself without mercy:
If I were the Big One,
Is this what would attract me?
Would I hunger to take this lure
Deep into my soul?

I torture myself thusly:
Silver spoons, shakers, shimmiers,
Wet worms, wigglers, wobblers,
Broken bobbers, bumpers, breakers,
Flying french perversions, flickers,
Trebled spinnners, sleek shifters,
Lures so alluring you do feel slight temptation
To swallow them down yourself,
Imitations, replications, reproductions,
All in endless repetition and reflection
Of a prime archetypal object of desire.

And not a single one of them would work.
I could tell this naturally,
Without being able to explain exactly why.
All of them were too fashioned,
Too made, artificial.
I closed the tacklebox carefully
And lay down in the bottom of the boat.
Slightly rocking upon the lake's slow hand,
Contemplating the dark rafters above:

Old heavy poles racked amidst spider's webs
And nest of dirt dobber and wasp.
Planks of wood gone gray with time.
Coils of weighted troutline 
On colored blocks indicating length.
And the black knots in the wood,
The richness of the grain,
The simple construction of a roof.
All of these entranced my attentions.

The wasps were tending to their nests,
Bringing in wood pulp and food,
Flying back out, disappearing in the sunlight.
I could imagine those white larvae
Hungry in their tight hexagons,
Black wings forming under pale skin.
And I had the insight that right there,
At the point of metamorphosis,
That they would be the perfect bait
To catch the Big One.
In my mind there: 
The silver hook shining
Between two domed eyes.

In such a state of reverie,
I didn't sense the approaching presence
Of the Bone Carver.
Then, a lit match arced before me,
Spun into the nest from out of his hand,
Caught the gray egg combs on fire,
Sent the wasps into a frenzy,
A few burning, falling
With the fragments of the nest
Into the black water of the lake.
A school of bream shot up at them,
Bubbling the rings of their descent.

I turned to face him.
He was smiling with amusement,
Smoking his pipe in quick bursts.
I spoke:

- They'd make even better bait
If they weren't on fire.

The Bone Carver laughed, as usual.
Said back:

- Mite be. Mite be.
But ah mose certanlee
Woodnt wanna be dat won try
Stick a hook troo won.
No siree.

He took up a pole and brushed down
The remains of the nest.
A few angry wasps circled his head
But none stung.
I asked:

- What kind of bait would you use
To catch the Big One?

- Dat be neethur heer nor dere,
Cuz ah don has no desire ta catch
Dat won. Get dat? It be your hunger
Dat make you dream bowt dat One.
So you got ask your own self:
What it would be dat you be wantin?

- But I've been doing that all afternoon.
I've gone through this entire tacklebox
Trying to figure out which lure would work.

- An you speck dat dis most portant Big Won
Gonna be wantin sumtin any po fool
Can go get at da store? I tell you what:
Dat Won don care nothin fo dese dreem lures,
Dat Won got hunger for real thins.
You wanna try catch him wit lil pieces o flesh,
Chop up lil pieces o da Meat,
Aint never gon happun.
Dat Won gonna want onlee affer won thin,
Sames as you: da Bone.
Da Bone o your desire be only sorta thin
Gon catch dat Big Won.
Yessahree, dat shore be troof.

I sat there, staring into the bottom
Of my Grandfather's boat,
Trying to sort it out.
But I couldn't separate my desire
From my dream of the Big One.
I told the Bone Carver:

- I have no idea what
The Bone of my desire is.

- Datsa start. Problem witchoo is dat
You got da Bone buried too deep in da dream.
You gotsta get rid o some o dat Meat
Keepin you from seein da Bone
Aint never gon catch dat Big Won
Tils you can sees dat Bone
Dat makes you so wants to catch it.
Watchoo gonna need is
Messo sum Bone Wurms.

- I've never heard of them.

- Shore you has. Everee bodee
Know bowt da Bone Wurms sooner o latur,
Usually latur, but day all know.
Bone Wurms is dose lil critturs
Dat love to eat dat dreem meet.
Day eat yo face right off,
Eat yo brain and hart,
Eat yo eyes and guts,
Eat eat eat to get down to da Bone.
Cuz dere aint nuthin a Bone Wurm
Like bettur dan sittin an singin
On a cleen white Bone.

- So what: do I have to dig up a grave
To find these Bone Worms?

- Aint no need to dig up no bodee.
You got a good meaty won rite here.
Fact is: Bone Wurm hep you get down
To da Bone o yourseff, hep you see
Whas dere unnerneath da Meat.
Tell you what:
You come on git owt o dat ole boat
An ahll shows howto get a buncho Bone Wurms.
Likkety split, yess sahh reee.

The Bone Carver held out his hard hand
And I took it, steeping out
Of my Grandfather's full of fear
But entirely seduced by the possiblities
He was offering.

We set out towards Hidden Lake,
Which fed into the Lake proper
From far back in the Piney Woods.
An old road turned a twisted way
Through the trees, ponds, and spriings.
I had walked down it many times.

We walked over the Dam,
Not talking, taking our time.
My thoughts settled down
To the steady pace
I kept with the Bone Carver.
There: just taking my time away.

The evening spread out across the horizon.
Turkey settled to roost
In the highest limbs,
Hieroglyphic silhouettes of patience.
Deer and quail stilled around our passage.
Owl and bat flushed and fluttered
The approaching darkness forth.

By the time we made it to Hidden Lake,
The was full of stars,
And a waning moon was on the rise.
The floor of the Piney Woods
Appeared silver, soft, silently
Absorbing our stepping though.
Hidden Lake was somewhere ahead,
Its waters lapping amidst
The rhythmic howls and cries
Of frogs and insects.

We turned and turned again,
Away from the water,
Emerged from the high canopy of the Pines,
And came out upon a slight hill,
The crest of which was crowned
By a tall and twisted tree.

As we neared,
I could see that it had been struck
Long ago be lightning,
A black seam ran its length.
The tree must have grown on
Beyond that event.
But as a wretched thing,
Gnarling and deforming
Out of the wound at its core.

The Bone Carver stopped before it,
Turned to me, said:

- Dis be onlee place in dese parts
Where you can find da Bone Wurms
Livin an workin bov da grown.

I moved closer to the tree's trunk,
Could see no sign of any living thing,
Even though the moon
Was approaching zenith.
I asked:

- Are you sure?
I can't see anything at all.
Where are they?

The Bone Carver place his hand
On the back of my neck,
Looked up, told me:

- Bone Wurms be up dere
Mongst awl dose branches.
You gonna hasta climbs up dere.
Day not gonna comes down to you,
Lessen you bury youseff in da grown.

And he laughed happily to himself
As he sat down with his back against the tree,
And took out his pipe.

I looked to the Bone Carver.
I looked up at the tree.
I thought about what he had told me
About the Bone Wurms.
Asked him:

- What do I catch them with?
And what do I put them in when I do?

- Juss get on up dere, you see.
Its you dats gonna tract em,
Your Meat an your Bones.
Now get on up for dat ole moon
Gets over da top o da sky.

And so, I climbed up the tree,
The Bone Carver urging me higher and higher
Until I sat in the uppermost branches.
My fears at first were that the dead limbs
Would not hold me.
But they were strong,
Even at the highest point.
Then my fear shifted
As I waited for the Bone Wurm to appear,
Acutely aware of every itch and tickle
On my skin. And I waited on.

The Bone Carver was directly below me,
And the sweet smoke from his pipe
Comforted and relaxed me.

The moon was now falling,
The stars wheeling above,
The night had grown silent.
The sweet smoke curling inside me
Distant, dark, and deep,
Swirling, waiting, drifting,
Dreaming.

Ten Bone Worms dripped out
Of the dark wound of the dead tree,
Dribbled up the twisted way
To caress my skin in spiral trailings.

The hair on my skin rippled
In waves of windlike ecstasy
As the tiny white Bone Worms
Wove their way around me.
Oozing up my spine,
Seven Bone Worms to my head.
Two slithered over my thighs.
One circled over my belly.
And poised with the promise
Of terrible pleasure,
They each waited outside
Each of my openings,
Burning to turn inside
And devour my Meat.

And I rocked in the twisted limbs
Of the dead tree,
Riding the waves of the dream,
Higher and higher,
Forgetting everything
In the ecstasy.
The Bone Worms 
Singing forth the Meat of me.

And when I thought I could go no higher,
I fell backwards, off the twisted branch.
And out of the dead tree,
Every hard limb of dead twist
Violently shaking me awake
As I tumbled down
Screaming:

- Get them off of me!

Over and over,
Rolling around on the ground
Before the Bone Carver,
Who was laughing so hard
That he was doubled over
Sahking nearly as much as I.

I stripped off my clothes,
Slapping and striking my body,
Until I counted ten tiny Bone Worms
Puddling upon the ground.

The Bone Carver recovered
From his great joke on me enough
To push over his tall black hat,
Which I turned over
And quickly placed
The Bone Worms inside of.
INCOMPLETADO......