Fuss-bucket

The sign read "Calumcari" Bullet ripped and scrawled with brand Like a carcass on safari Its head hung mounted on demand. The piked and pitted road bent Along the plain. The parched wind Split flat coughed 'til flesh was rent And there were no hope to rescind. An ancient, barren, broken well Apollyonic orifice Stood an entrance into hell Those riddling its dark device. From the heat like silver neon A messenger approached Like some grave automaton With the terms of lands encroached. On his suit breast a wilting rose In his white gloved hand a letter Writ in blood, of ill compose For trespass one might think better. I asked