Never Again To a Mystery

Our deaf and dumb pilot, Whose path-finding guts we haven’t got, Took us to the sinister spot, Where would be found a fearsome pot And the littlest cot, With baby spirits like a big dot, Still seeming through and through a zygote, Some on the cot happily choosing to squat, A handful with their eyes chasing a far-off yacht And the rest riotously dead, ready to rot! And all these did my belly churn And our hearts burn And a Roger resurrect his trust in incense and urn I, swearing never again to a mystery turn.