Aye, my lad, I’m inclined to agree,

The words in The Wasteland be strange indeed.

You, young man, are wise to heed

And closely examine all that you read.

 

Share what you’ve read with men of words

And see if they recoil from what they have heard.

Sharing my tale, is my eternal vocation

And many avert my grim intonation.

 

Perhaps your scholars ken my name,

In such circles I have won great fame.

Mine eye captivates all without fail,

Or also you may rehearse to them my tale.

 

This landscape appeals to your focused eye?

Well that I can see. I shall not ask why!

A wanderer too, I perceive you to be,

Passed through many a land, and isle and sea.

 

But how do you enjoy this whirlpool of words?

It may prove being mad is alike being learned?

All rhymes measured equal, in weal or in woe.

To read is leagues off from what it is to know.

 

Yet your skill in observing parts so obscure

And place them together regained or impure,

Is much to be lauded and you, I commend

For understanding what few comprehend.

 

Avast! Let us away from wastelands of rock,

My sea-legs grow weary if even at dock!

Let us see what further readings betide

Pray the rain of the wasteland soon will subside.

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