The fairy–blue book fell
Into the rose well,
Fathoms deep .
Lore rises on the smell,
Yours to keep .

Like a flying insect,
It hovers exact,
Darts around
Sharp–angled in aspect .
Lightspeed–bound

Metallic mandala,
Sometimes a cigar,
Yields crop art
And third–kind encounters
Probing arse .

Worshippers in tin foil
Testify piecemeal
Of cabals
Masking aliens real,
Scales and all .

*[ WSB ]_.