This morning it was revealed that the
wasteland was composed by a wave.
The wave drew in and whispered
to a passing fisher.
April is… And so on, and so on. And each
line was quieter as the wave dispersed.
Immediately the fisher saw no one
would believe such a literary event
could have been made by an undulation
caused mostly by the wind.
And so she made up a persona, called Eliot
and she finished the inaudible last lines.
She relished it later, the chaos it caused,
sending ripples through culture.
Those old bastards needed a shake up
and here it was.
She sat in her hut, first edition in lap,
smiling as she smoked her pipe.
A fisher queen in her own domain.
and thunder came across the sea.