by Nick Gisburne
The stench of death is putrid, rotten, rank
An ancient cargo, scavenged from the sand
Each primitive, disease-infected tank
Is hauled aboard the zeppelin by hand
The man in white is wary of the find
He taps his cane to dampen his distaste
The ship, this expedition, all designed
To seize a lasting legacy, long chased
A shackled wretch is hurled into the hold
The hatch behind him closes, quickly sealed
Exposed, the deadly vapours, slick and cold
Dissolve his mind, their wickedness revealed
A poison, snatched from time, a savage blight
Will fall upon a helpless world tonight
