When Doctor Miller cut the melanoma,

Her scalpel sliced away a football,

Vesica picsis or a cheap patch, a Dutchman,

As finger grafts conceal stigmata.

Cross your bow the flying Dutchman won’t go home,

Hungry ghost damned to float on the flood.

The Dutch boy standing stiff like a moon on the dam

Can’t hold in rising tide pumping blood.

Quixote on a quest tilting at windmills,

Romans thrust in the spear of destiny.

Spinning arms of the cross send his head over heels.

Levees fail and he walks on the sea.