While cruising Corona on the net,
I saw pangolins not eaten yet.
Many, you see, believe its scales,
Are cure-alls to cure whatever ails.
And its meat festoons the rich Asian table.

Who ate the pangolin from head to toe.

China lauds its laws to say they save
The endangered pangolins,
At home, in Asia;
Yet in Wuhan, locked live in cages,
In wet markets like our Dark Ages,
The scaly pangolin is sold.

But Revenge,
We know,
Is a dish best served cold.

I paddled and glided along the current
Of the St. Clair,
To the west bank of the serpentine river,
And portaged to the ash tree,
Known as Ching-ach-****,
Waving noble limbs in full relief,
Offering respite from the meridian sun.
Leaves fluttered in the north current.
Beneath I lay in cold comfort
Envisioning the bows and bats that once propogated:
The unborn of an endangered species.
This is a dead tree growing,
Seeds, like Uncas,
Rotting above the roots:
This native treasure
Waiting for the emerald bore
Like an imprisoned pagan.