A man waits at the door
Then waits a little more
At last.
Death raps the vagabond slurry
Toiling and writhing a clamorous Sheglank, Sheglank!
The walls are thin and paisley in this old musty kingdom
Weary the worn paths of the shuffling years
Busy they were with honest steps once
Young steps
Babes feet in the wonder years
Mighty man and proud, and pregnant
It always came though, it always was there
He knew it too early, and it Knew him too
Slithering, as it does right between lovers, between kin, beneath the years
A tamed friend with its own worn paths around this place
Now just to answer the door