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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.

Came's Hed looking left