Mars was bright that year,
And reflected off the lonely lake,
As red as the belly of my upturned canoe.
I stood naked by the lapping waves,
Washing off the stale bug dope,
In the smoke from my campfire,
(The mosquitoes, too, were bad that year.)
The accusing war-god eye
Looked up from the dark water
And asked
“What if you broke an arm out here?”