The dragons follow us around,
Sneaking in and out of the mist,
Shrieking nonsense, a silent sound,
Lonely and hungry to be kissed.
They are two of nine ancient worms
(A magic number in godly terms):
Each is older than the other;
Each is no dragons’ brother;
Each has a near toothless maw;
Each has lost all but one claw.
Out of this frightless paucity,
They have this one audacity:
Yolky eyes loll in scaly lids,
Laughing at our egos and ids.
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