A Crater pulled, in any circumstance,
is most definitely not chance:
but yours truly in one or other guise.
I was a spanner-monkey on the Spirit; way
before Lindburgh's baby left the light of day
- but you have seen my footprints
by a thousand scenes of crime,
my work untrammelled by the reins of time.
In Algonquin I was Child-Eater
and I took her, the first-one, from Roanoke:
they said I wouldn't dare, but I
slaughtered the others as I watched her choke.
My names are many and ill-spoken by
the fearful, while debating my
presumed and possible existence.
I was a deck-hand on the Patriot: worse
for Theodosia who screamed in Greek and Latin verse,
until she hit the breakers.
Benjamin Briggs lost a poker hand
aboard a celestial Mary, a ship unmanned
by me: the sea has been my acolyte
in many serious matters.
Ambrose and I argued over ownership of a
dictionary and I vanished him one sweltered day
yonder there, down Mexico way.
Earhart, Miller and lucky Buddy's friends
I've helped them all to meet their ends
one way or another.
Just look to me for Flight 19
-I don't care where the plane had been.
Gremlin, Demon or plain bad luck,
I saw Jimmy Hoffa leave the back of a truck.
There is no tail -as someone once sang-
there are only tales, and taller than trees.
I need no introduction, nor permission:
you'd know me now if you'd just listened.
There's nothing in any kind of name,
by nature: this is no guessing game.