You skitter across sun-bleached bones

And trickling golden sand dunes

In your thick black armor,

Complete with two curved daggers

And a spike-tipped whip across your back.

I could call you a knight,

For you have kept many kings company

In their desert crypts and palaces.

But your code is only of survival

And chivalry doesn't always fit

Of course, you could be a witch

Drawing power from the seventeen stars

That wrote your name in the southern sky

And the bones that you live in.

But your poison holds no strange magic

You are, in fact, only a scorpion.

A desert crawler that could fit in my hand

If I were foolish enough to pick you up.

But I'm not; you seek a distant oasis

And it's not my place to stop you…