fishing scrawls
skittering craws
   rivers float halls
     the lines, the movement, it moves;
it calls
reels skreel, to land, the catch, it stalls
           down the stream
                       the bodies wither,
        I forget what it's called ?
          decay or death does it
    matter;
         at the end of the day
     we're in the hands at
        the end of the rod
     of the mad hatter.