In the land so aptly named Schlaraffenland,
by Herbert Nehrlich
he slaved all day and searched each moonlit night
deep in the forest for the treasures of the Gods.
His name was Hickelfloggendorp, a Nordic specimen,
he'd dig with callused hands the forest floor
for truffles, under bushes and the roots of pine.
He could not see inside the silence of the mound,
he felt a gap, a horizontal port of call,
half hidden in the curls of moss, it beckoned still
until he entered into darkness, it was brave,
the great unknown surrounding, rivulets of dew
fell on his skin and drops of rain slipped from above
off convolutions at the crown of this dark cave,
exotic fragrances like London Mist adrift
he felt pure velvet and his ears took in the cries
of urges dissonant and baritone to shrill,
a desert wind without the sand but bearing heat
blew onto loins and dried pudendal skin at will.
There was a softness of pure velvet, a small teat
now swelling quickly and he realised that eyes
were now as futile as his hands beneath this bridge
he left him standing there, a warrior and a fool
there would be time to use his services and size
but until then he would be left there just to drool.
He spoke in tongues now and was watched with envious eyes
by a chameleon and owls in handsome trees,
this was new territory, whispers in its throat
he'd entered stone-henged walls and smelled the breath of bees,
and found a silence and the promise of a moat.
He felt it rising now, the sap from secret tubes
released by aches and tiny spasms from the ground
and only instinct led him, welcome Rubik's Cubes,
a froth of liquid oozes, all without a sound
before he catches it, spills slowly onto hips
and there is movement now, the sails of floating ships