Another tale is told. Another poet grows old. This is the work of the fabled poet Sir Winston Pewter, who spun this tale while traveling in the Southern Wastes of Tiny Land.
It is an homage to a woman he only knew as Buttercup. It wasn’t her real name, and she left behind only mystery and intrigue.
Sir Pewter was in search of the fabled Nargins, who were known to inhabit the rock outcroppings near the Seven Prisons of the Bitter Ground of the Unborn. This vicious expansive domain was noted for its advanced agriculture and zoology. It was destroyed by social breakdown, leaving behind only monuments.
I am Grotesque Under the Towers
So luminous under the light
You invoke comely hands on the dream
Ahhh! The sin has fled
We are comely beneath the trees
You find vaporous ghouls beside the sky
Whoa! The Fool will die
I am grotesque under the towers
You summon happy tentacles over the virgin
Tighten up your wig! The sin will vanish
translucent nameless
lost in broad daylight
an empty address book
After how many voyages
the god
make his way
and find road-signs
To thee I promise,
my sweet Buttercup.