Issue 160, Winter 2001
At first, we spoke in many languages.
Mainly jabbed and pointed amidst
The din of pounding and sawing. But
Gradually, as we toiled, a lingua franca
Did emerge-with words like nail,
Level and joint compound. Still,
I don't think you could have called it
A true tongue until the forty-first night,
When Naguib, that one-eyed mason
From Ur, composed a scabrous-even
Scurrilous-song, so very infectious we
Couldn't help but clap and sing along.