There is a place called chasm row
where no one bright attempts to go
a place where clinging vapors slime—
where greying coasts are gripped with grime.

There is a place called chasm row
where choking rodents come and go
where seaweed is the only food
and where the clinging goblins brood.

The things that live in chasm row
are not things I would like to know
their veins are grey from griming dust
and that’s some stuff I do not trust.

There’s whack-ass shit in chasm row,
it’s made of rocks and winds that blow
it’s full of things that blink too much,
that scream and have no sense of touch.

And stealing through the grey-ish land
there is a feral children’s band
with busted flutes, a broken bass
(it’s not the greatest choral space).

How they arrived, I do not know,
I found them where the dead things go.
And as I learned atop their pier,
they bite you if you get too near.

In any case, they have new drums
to smash the Gringler when he comes.
A triangle, bows, some pots and pans.
I doubt they’ve read my lesson plans.