Uncle History doesn’t notice the seasons
They’re all the same
It’s as if he lives inside a mountain
His eyes are like pin points
He’s a creature of the dark
Words of the scribes
Sink to his lair
His scribes, his scarabs
Tickle tickle
Here comes some more bad news
In fairness, and given
The Illud tempus
Good news can happen
But only the earth reports it
The earth with its slow hands
Planet of the Blind 