Prostate on the fetid jungle floor,
Draped in the red and orange ornamental cotton robes of a monk
He lay mesmerized by the tablets shambolic scribble.
What could this possibly mean?
Hands shaking as he held the tablet, deep down he knew.
Though menacing, with his henna facial markings,
He had an uneasy feeling that he could not diffuse.
Fraught with fear, he reached for his decanter of Holy Water,
Thinking he could protect himself from this Pagan curse..
Chanting, the lowly monk prayed that the grace of his God would save him,
But alas, the synthesis of prayer and paraphernalia could not shield his mortal soul.
Gasping his last breath and with devotion still in his failing heart
The lowly monk rose with tablet raised overhead and struck,
Shattering the curse over a rock that lay before him,
Praying that the tablets curse with him would die
Never to plague mankind again.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~