A party sits and eats in pungent dirt and leaves and grass,
Now they begin to drink from hollowed rinds found in the loam.
I meet a wooden man with an Easter Island Face,
He carves a deep and hollow tune I cannot erase.
She walks on thin glass heels through crevices in granite,
Hollow laughter rings just behind, shrieking from stone to stone.
A freshly minted mime shines a Windex-clear window.
His hollow motions haunt me as my grinding teeth groan.
A blacksmith pounds his anvil at an olde-timey faire,
His hammer strikes are hollow; he does not pound for fares.
The old king feels arthritic while he waits for Ragnorak,
His sword hangs at his side useless it is forged from hollow bone.
A wizard plays at solitaire in the halls of Xanadu,
This sage does not feel pride though, for every hand he knew.
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