A Poem of Fools

Poem #3.

By Thoth Amon’s evil demands, many exiles enter these lands.
Most die quick, ahead of their time, as punishment for some made-up crime.
It takes no honor or strength of mind, to leave the barren deserts behind.
Any fool with will can survive, and lawless land is where fools thrive.
And so this is how the story goes, from the brink of death, such a man rose.
Circumnavigate the land was his plan, all by himself, with no friends or clan.
But worse yet, though not to be rude, he chose to do it in the nude.
Only a pack for his food and tools, he began the journey; king of fools.
First to the jungle, along the south shore, where trees touch the sky and rains always pour.
Dodging giant spiders and toxic fog, bridging a gorge on a perilous log.
Swimming around pirates, his skin still bare, found coin-filled chests before rising for air.
Through shallow waters where crocs abide, past rhinos with reptilian hide.
In the desert, the sun beat on his face, and locusts engaged him in a foot race.
Then the savanna and feline that’s white, to the highlands, with not one tiger bite.
Quickly north, outrunning hungry wolf packs, and all the arrows from Nordic attacks.
To the volcano and molten stone, heat more intense than he’d ever known.
Every coin he’d found in the bay went toward the cool drink merchants’ pay.
Dying from heat as he left The Floe, temperature dropped as his feet touched snow.
Without a coat, he nearly froze, though frostbite claimed three of his toes.
In the tundra, he met glowing undead, with great haste, to the southern pass he fled.
He evaded bandits out for his purse, but by now, he’d certainly seen much worse.
To the city unnamed, where dragons roam, the place the Giant-kings had once called home.
So he finished his trip, weary and sore. What’d the fool do next? Go around once more.