We bolt down fallow legends,
re-regurgitated scrag ends,
for pigeon breasted champions
of the bookish or the wise.
All ye middle-aged Pucks,
time to suck in our guts;
we kid that poesy pies don't hide
jaundiced blackbirds of pretension,
though we suspect literary mansions
have no priest holes of our size.
Still, we super word score scrabble
in love's cinders and life's rubble,
prance on toffee coloured heath
in sweet cinnamon disguise.
Northern salt is traded freely,
no longer merchants gold;
dehydrated tear-drops
often bleak and undersold.
Don't dally with the yesteryears,
so we're crisply told;
be bright as Knights of Passion,
not grey, as tales of old.
-----------------
minor edit 29.09.10
Comments
Silver Spun Sand | July 21, 2009 - 09:26
Oh, I like this. You sound as if you have really had 'fun' with these wonderful words that you use.
I certainly enjoyed reading it.
Tina
lenchenelf | July 22, 2009 - 08:28
Thank you Tina, a bit of a mindfoggy sort of day, dug this one out of the archives,it makes even less sense now than it did at the time of writing.Hmmn!
minor edit 22.7, still experimenting with POV as usual atb Lena