The Hermit From The Hills Poem by Not Long Left

He came from the hills.
Those ghostly mounds
Where the wind whispers,
and the misty clouds consume you.
His Face, victim of a thousand sun
drenched days,
and a thousand windy nights.
His hair, wild as his mind,
had no direction in its growth.
His eyes, home to a million deaths
burnt the air.
Into the village he went,
past market stalls,
of rotten fruit and acidic smells.
Like a leper, they dodged him,
Like the wind thier whispers,
travelled fast.
'The mad man from the hills has come'
'who, the hermit, he has not left his cave,
for thirty years'
'what does he want? '
slowly the villages circled him,
moving in eerie controlled silence.
The man from the hills,
smiled streched out his arms,
looked up to the retreating sun.
and with an unused alien voice,
shouted
'Has anyone got any spare toilet
roll I've used me last sheet
and those leaves leave a nasty rash! ! ! ! '