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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required From The Lost Book of Tuberlantis (Translated from the Spudscrit by The Potato of Terror) Retrieved Passage 1: Prologue Many leagues beneath the sea where the flat-winged sloth skate flies lie the million fossil eyes of Tuberlantis: drowned city. There tuber groovers, bright and bold who once cross-dressed for star-crossed love lie prone while freight ships pass above they sleep in silt, like buried gold. For all the laughter and the beers, the long-lost camp, the gaiety for buried lives of mystery we weep for them, and droop our ears. And Oh! The laugh like cackling loons And Ah! The whip that downward swings upon the tuber's broken wings and scattered crumbs of macaroons. Here lie the pages of a sage who fought against becoming mad who wrote the only thoughts he had through fizzing fits and gnashing rage. Retrieved Passage 2: The Book of Days They said to him it was unwise it could not be pushed in that way he nodded back, rolling his eyes and went and pushed it anyway The tubers all were sore dismayed at such repentless recklessness with such a coarse tool as a spade by a King Edward in a dress They hauled him to a prison cell they made him eat cold plates of tripe and pick oakum, in that dark hell where budding criminals turn ripe and so he wrote a Book of Days to chronicle his suffering with stolen ink and icing glaze amid great huffs and muttering he wrote it all on bedding sheets and anything that came to hand he hid it in his trouser pleats hoping the world would understand an erring artist's vanity and descent into wicked ways the slow collapse of sanity that gave birth to The Book of Days.
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