Eliot the Swell

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
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

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