Look the damp world over,
See the gasping things that die,
Smell the bogs of treachery,
Where rotted bodies lie.

Hear the wails of creatures vile,
That moan at midnight deep,
Evoke the shivering spiders,
That through the walls will creep.

Sliding snakes and millipedes,
Slink through marshy dew,
Gobble up the things that crawl,
Leaving just a few.

Dried up blood from torn off skin,
Rancid mud will eat,
Infected grime that coats my wound,
Sludge around my feet.

Putrid choke of swampy sweat,
Mosquitoes in my mouth,
Look away from a half-dead sun,
Tramp on towards the south.

Yet what to find when I get there,
More mire to coat my teeth,
Or snakes athwart the river slime,
Around my neck a wreath.

Yet weariness shall be my friend,
As ever I march on,
I'll make a truce between some two,
Until the year is gone.