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…