[FOsen]

I met a traveler from an antique band
who said, “I’m—aarrgghh—Keef Richards, Rolling Stone,”
and near this wraithlike geezer, on the sand,
half-sunk, a massive visage lay, with frown,
familiar lip, and leer of cold command.
“Oh, him, the monument,” exclaimed the codger,
“I wrote a book and said he was my mate,
and told the world he had a tiny todger
and how I boffed his chick. He's in a tiff,
that's all—I mean, it’s Life, at any rate.”
And then he played the most stupendous riff,
and I forgot to ask him why he’d stayed
or driven others from this petroglyph.
I knew he’d lived so long within its shade.

Frank