Estragón Sur La Plage

Yes, there are more than Tom's hollow men,

some have a birdhouse in their soul,

sit splay-legged on faraway beaches,

where the sun is still shining at ten.

My hollow is more than my whole,

for I carry a bag full of leeches.

My wig is a blanket of horsehair,

I'm wearing this hat for a dare.

There are holes in my shoes, a leak in my pen:

my inner birds are a swift and a swallow,

a roc, a phoenix or a battery hen.

For what is inside is not what we know,

this walking stick contains whiskey for when

I'm waiting for someone, someone you know.