He woke up in a crashing din Half in a dream he grabbed his sword They smashed the door down and rushed in What the Hell was his last word He staggered out into the snow And left a stain that didn't go Until it was found in four million and three By descendants of Smith His snuff box and his shoulder pack Were sold in 'Antiquarian' Someone else's bric-a-brac A taste of times long since bygone The stain was sinking in a vice Two feet deep in solid ice Until it was found in four million and three By descendants of Smith His blood was put in their machine Which reproduced him at great speed Engineered a female gene And put them in a room to breed With esperanto anecdotes Resuscitated microdots The descendant of Smith Ran a colony of centaurs Roamed a zoo with mastodon And never knew of his mentors
