You thirst for water
But there is no water on the mount
Nor in the druids refrigerator
You thirst
But it has not rained
For 713 days
The druid, taking pity on your great need
Morphs himself into a fountain
But you go to drink
And the water is so hot
Like it has been sitting in a garden hose
On an August day
Weak and long past
The point of seeing any manners
Or any value in manners
You scream for the druid to turn his cloak to ice cubes
Just to give you something else
Something to go with it
But, instead
He turns his cloak into a hive of bees
You thirst still
But you must run from the bees
And their many stingers
Running through the desert
Thirsty
Running from bees