At the bank of the still water that house crocs breathing the stench of a gory death
A cold-blooded stare at me and my dreams,
With steely teeth’s poised to strike, and razor claws that sparkle death.
Guarding me against my path, & snarls ‘if you dare!’
Oh dear! Is this a cul-de-sac? For I haven’t met my dreams yet. Dreams that lull just around the river bend.
Is this doom? For I have no alar to defy gravity,
No spear to devour these villainous threats,
And no grease to fuel my knees for a spin.
Pls! Wake me up!