Before the age of men
and dragons and computers
was the age of unicorns:
funny fellows
half horse and half horn
and a hint of honey. No calories.
No diabetes. No nothing.

The last unicorn to stand
on its four odd-toed hoof foundations
was the mighty Hoen,
son of Grij, son of Groen,
King Under the Rainbow,
with his mighty lonely horn
and his bovely-lovely whine.

One merry midday he made a gathering
to celebrate his birthday
with the thinking fellowship
of horned and odd-toe-hooved kin
and hearty apple pie.

They sang four mellow songs,
and put lyrics to gay tunes.
They danced dressed in linen clothes
and brazen rings and
wooden shoes.
It morrowed and evened
forty four times
before the dancing stopped.

And sojust before bedtime
he proclaimed:
« Pleasantmost and picturescky compagnons,
yes, we have a simple answer
to the ultimate question:
it’s all about the scope.
But, ¿what is the question? »

One of his fellow funny fellows, however,
replied « I demand that we never know ».
And thus ‘twas all fast forgotten.

Then the King summoned his
royal companion,
a rare golden retriever
the sizeof("W|S|O"),
which ain’t size of no pointer, nor terrier,
but six multidimensional characters.

They then together bade goodbye their pleasant guests:
one with the waving of his hoof,
the other with the the wagging of his tail.
Everybody streamed down
larmes of réjouissance.

After all this fuss, there were no more unicorns
in four odd-toed hoof foundations:
they stood on two
and called themselves
men and women and children
and everything between,
but never did they lose
the twisty wicky horn.

And thence was the time of men and women
and children and everything between
and dragons and computers.


The tale of Hoen begins
the sun shone its mightiest.
All the birds on earth
sang of cock-a-doodle-doos.
Fire cracked,
cormorant rivers and faintly beasts
danced under the two-dimension sky.

He walked his hooved foundations
into twenty-and-middle gears
and old towns of new homes
–eyes and crows and jays alike–
and leftover corn,
and pilfered their remaining riches
of iron and dead animal remains.

He sat to ponder
under the sad shade of
a mumbly plum tree that
he himself had burnt:

¿Why should the land come unto me
and not come back to old homes and
knock-knock iron doors?
No native script can see
or mark your dogs down.

Thus was beknown not only
as master of mumbly plums,
defiler of new towns,
thiever of iron treasures,
argonaut and serialiser,
but Hoen,
son of Grij, son of Groen,
King Under the Rainbow.