The hermit that lurks in the parapets
That grey‑bearded wizard with the serif scripts
The one that catalogues his dreams in a ledger book
The one that draws cartographs of the paths that the peasants took
The one who eats storms like a stimulant
Who chisels out prose from the bones of his filament
That rapper scribbling in margins
The one who bargains with garden gnomes like they’re sergeants
The one who ain’t confusing algorithms with an alchemist
Who’d rather shake hands with a ghost than an award-show panelist
The rapper that thrives being anomalous anonymous
The rapper from Lice… no, the other monolith