I’ve been so very parched, so cold and harsh,
So desiccated here within the rind
Of once ripe full and fulminating brine,
Its fluids rife with subterranean marsh
Imbued with life and action on a barge,
Upon the so-called Styx that ever winds
The hither-thither bends of caves and mines
That Aztecs and their victims roamed at large
For ceremony’s sake and led the charge
As Moctezuma fell across the line
From fantasy to apathy refined
By noxious repetition of his entourage.
I never thought to check the latest almanac
When common sense became my cul-de-sac.