Immunity unto the Place of Wind had I not.
With no further defence against her landlocked lethargy,
We galloped down seaward
To the Place of Shade, the closest one-horse town
Offering a lapping shore plus killer pizza.

Left limp at lofty waves,
The Judging Bright Baron and I remained anchored to stinging sand.
Lifting the fecundity of fear, The Rock raised shirt off shoulders,
Heading bewildered into the depths of the salty foam.
He swam, far, deep, finally forming a salty raisin.

Come back, dad! You could die! Are there shark nets?
How would we get home? You are my home – not this
Messed up world and its bad-beaked inhabitants.
There are still so many people I’d like you to meet.
Plus we’re still on for a large Quattro Stagioni after this, right?