Oh you ancient continent, you;
your face is drifting again.
Oval's gone, top's flattened out,
In no time, the whole mass unclenched from life itself.
And none to remember origin's shape.
The oldest geographers, your own, won't have a clue.
Look at it! Mouth closed, eyes closing.
"Hello in there; hello all you dark places."
Looking in, across the table,
Through the seen of your reader glasses,
Those owl eyes and frightened...
I'd say, 'fearful of all the migrations.'
No? Am I not right?
But I'd also say, 'Where's your stuff, where's your gitty-up?'
So the bottom of your pants are rolled, so what?
"Get up. Can you hear me? Get up."