In these swamps of blank despair,
of teeth and fangs and gripping claws,
decaying flesh and rotting turd,
some talk of north and south is heard,
with learned (and poetic) diction,
a pretty blend of fact and fiction.
But where is what and how to start
is not a matter for poetic art.
In a swamp, north looks much like south;
either may lead to a crocodile’s mouth.
So if the gnomon doesn’t work in cloud
accept the compass and don’t act proud.