The Myth of Malone Washek

Nosing nicotine from his hand
Soiled by ink, black as oil
Malone spent his lonely days
Among plastic, cherries and wood
Ucronìa was a rueful place
To live in, dun as lead
Working in a typography
Where he lost once his arm
Mediocrity, his vaunt
Utterly seemed to degrade
Post-industrial scenes of his life
Were too faded to be prized

No more money, no more hope
Neither an eye, which he pulled out
And a moron boy playing among mangles
Showing his chunk, then screaming for pain
His father was so mad
That he threw his cane against Malone
He lost even an ear
And run away dropping blood and tears
So the city seemed diverse
A knotty Daedalus of bricks and minds
Washek was desperately running through
Gloomy arcades, under middle-east roofs
Golden sand
And bearded men
The last things he saw
Before he swooned

Then he woke up
In the middle of night
Sweated and petted by
Smogs and rays of light
Factories, so stunning
And mechanical sounds
And that nurse told to him
To get back down

When morning
Had come
Malone was received
By the old ones
They though
He was really rough
So he had to fight
And he won

Time to battle has come
We'll bring our creed
We'll bring our brunt
To unbelievers
To who does deserve to die
It's time
For god's sake, it's time
That's what Malone said
Before the invasion begun
To his soldiers, as a pun
They tried to figure out
So they fought
They killed
And they thought
They would have won
But then were executed all
Malone was ripped
Without mercy
Justice wasn't brought
And his myth was cut off
The right ones cried Malone
The right ones cried Malone
The right ones cried Malone