The Crocalog, he travelled far
He saw things just the way they are.
But, always in his peregrinations
He sought for farther destinations
In thoughts of what he’d left behind
A face not place came to his mind.
He sought strange sights his time to fill
And hoped he could forget, but still. . .
Then, he ceased his self-delusion,
Saw through all his past confusion,
Home’s not the place where the beck bends,
Home is the place you left your friends.
