It was just beneath his gnarled old feet
That first he felt the feel,
The slow and supple writhing
Of the horse-faced eel.
It was on his pale and spindly legs
Where first he did begin,
To note the clutch of slimy lips
Upon his limpid skin.
It was in the dark and gathering gloom
Where first he did behold,
A troop of pale white marsh monkeys
Sporting freakishly in the mould.
It was out of the corner of his scaly eye
Where first he caught the sight,
Of rows and rows of sharp thin teeth
Phosphorescing silently in the night.
It was on his moist and grimy neck –
A cold and awful nudge,
That sent him down to meet his end
Prostrate upon the sludge.