Round The Rugged Rocks The Ragged Rascals Ran Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

Who are these gruff wretches
that are on a tongue-twister?

These may 've been be a bunch
of downcast ronins
in a search of a master
who'd deign to dispose
of their mean lives,
and rule them, and guide them,
and awe them, and claim their
wholehearted allegiance.

These may 've been a gang
of pirates marooned
in a grip of the island,
who looked like dead walking,
who ran wild much helpless,
mad, frenzied to seek an escape.

These may 've been a field team,
detailed on a wild goose chase,
a task horrifying
to measure the Earth's speed
with meters attached to
their chests, panting, sunken, -
a race of some 300 laps.

Perhaps,
none of my conjectures
will suit to the purpose
to find out what for
these rascals were running.
However, my fancy
is tapping on a query,
my peckish desire
to slip into weird
expression of man.