The most treacherous, the spawn-of-mythos
Murderer — mirage of a whirl pool
Beneath hanging cliffs -- who can’t even hunt,
Must make his fate, deep, and anonymous,
The passing by of the delicious fools —
Some polling pols in their pathetic punt.
Homebound, risking the Straits of Hormuz a
Sailor thought long on vicious Scylla --
Better hands full of mates torn asunder
Than let his rudderless vessel founder.
He straddled the prow with a golden shield
Upraised to fend off raking teeth and claws.
The monsters ignored him and scythed their yield,
Leaving the leader to his insane cause.
