Front page
Scratched into cave walls unseen,
tiny marks talk of a number,
a large number, a huge number,
but who knows what it means?
The Cavemen live primitively on Holed
And the origin of all has been forgotten,
But falling light bulbs turn their food supply cold,
Thus the burning questions grow hotter and hotter
They research what the lights could be
They research every corner of every cave
They ask for ancestors, memory or fact,
For while Holed remains a mystery,
ever breath brings them closer to death