Our hero has a fondness for Crocodiles. Not the wild outdoor Crocodile lurking at the river crossing, ready to snap up the unwary or the frail, rather those Crocodile that belong to the Sufi Poet. There may indeed be confusion in our hero's defining of a Sufi Poet, because at a young age our hero was of a mind to think of all Sufi Poets as Saints. The Crocodiles our hero has a fondness for are the result of a miracle performed by a poet. And certainly there are no end of more prosaic explanations for Sacred Crocodiles.
But just pretend a lyric moves your mind, and the lice of its author when tossed
into a pond turned into Crocodiles, as they did for Lal Shahbaz, a man of peace
and a poet. Much later in the passage of his time upon earth our hero read the
poems of Dylan Thomas, and so many others all of whose lice would have turned
into dollar bills or francs or pounds. And he had to ask the question of Lal
Shahbaz. Nor was the answer very nice, which is why some crocodiles are still
sacred, others hunted for their skin.