We go to bate the jauntier hun,
the pearl that grows in the wadi.
One jaunt leaves half the team
just shims in obis sucking up toxic puds
and fingering the pearly hafts of their rifles.
So we spar amongst ourselves,
eke out our wraths in full gillie, knees against
the dashboard of the van. Moods darken.
We grow fins, detox and
finally we cede the zone.
Spare us, ay, if you so desire.
This poem is constructed entirely out of words placed during a game of Scrabble.