Beneath the foggy weedsnUnder the salty chalcedony flownLurks a grimy beastnWith cruel intentions, intentions for sicknnBeneath a hairy necknPeeps a balmy pecknCocked and aimed, relentlessly loadednEggs in jeopardy, deep rootednIntentions for sicknnThis swampy mush is it's churchnFew things breathenNothing leavesnA glance is all the proofnThe beast is not a teasennThe shapeless mass stalks its preynInnocence, it lives in ruinsnAs he lifts his eyes from the jerkwaternGod's sense of humor, renders its ugly facenIntentions for sick.