He woke up in a crashing din

Half in a dream he grabbed his sword

They smashed the door down and rushed in

"What the Hell" was his last word

He staggered out into the snow

And left a stain that didn't go



Until it was found in four million and three

By descendants of Smith



His snuff box and his shoulder pack

Were sold in 'Antiquarian'

Someone else's bric-a-brac

A taste of times long since bygone

The stain was sinking in a vice

Two feet deep in solid ice



Until it was found in four million and three

By descendants of Smith



His blood was put in their machine

Which reproduced him at great speed

Engineered a female gene

And put them in a room to breed

With esperanto anecdotes

Resuscitated microdots



The descendant of Smith

Ran a colony of centaurs

Roamed a zoo with mastodon

And never knew of his mentors