Down Below

The second worst dressed man,
in town.
Became unsteady, downtown.
Unable to get homeward-bound.
He found himself back, where he began.
And wondering what to do next.

Lost in an inner city triangle.
A wild Southport rover,
adrift and way off-shore.
Miles from the crazy golf
and lush green bowling.
And wondering, just plain wondering.

Help me he cries,
to no-one in particular.
I’m lost and way-off course.
With no map,
and no compass.
And nobody out-there to call.

In desperation he fumbles
in pockets, deep with fluff.
And he finds a hunk of chalk,
some mouldy mushrooms,
and a ragged pocket knife.

So he shaves off all the green,
and swallows all his shrooms.
He draws an entrance to a tunnel,
a strong ladder and some rope.
Then descends without a second-thought,
blinking down below.

This midnight Arne Saknussemm,
Wades through caverns and through severs.
He’s at home among the stalactites;
at one with underground.
A whistler in the darkness,
and a wanderer down below.


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