He was blind and cold,
but he could smell gold.
He was long and rich,
and eased his belly's itch
with sharp bright stones;
but his toys were bones:
hands of dwarves and skulls of men
that were piled in his den
licked smooth and white.
Not for him was flight:
a wingless drake;
Not for him was fire:
a slimy snake,
fouler than mire,
Crawling and creeping on
like a slow death,
Freezing with fear
and his cold breath,
Crushing and grinding
under his white womb;
dark was his dwelling
as a dark tomb.