I’m counting straws. I need to know
what number marks the last;
my hands are scratched, the job is slow,
my will-power ebbing fast.
It stands, the patient quadruped,
beside the desert road,
its interest small, it must be said,
as I increase the load.
But, straw by straw, I carry on –
researchers can’t give in –
my stamina is almost gone,
my head is in a spin.
My fingers bleed, dust swirls, I blink
and finally lose count.
The camel gives a knowing wink –
straw breaks me, not my mount.