By The Walrus
© 2013 David Jasmin-Green
I follow the trail of gleaming fairy dust, the strings
of tiny Christmas lights that Shiners like you
can't help leaving in their wake
for the benefit of bloodhounds like me.
You sprinkle your well-trodden paths
with glowing golden pussy pepper,
you fill the air with musk and sweat,
you spatter tantalising blood speckles
to the four winds and covertly assail
my hungry nostrils with sweet, sweet incense
however hard you try to cover your tracks.
I sip softly of the never-ending river because
even the never-ending river can run dry
if too many drink too greedily.
I sniff at your barely discernible footprints
in the tainted sands of my soul,
and I send up a prayer to the Almighty
if the Almighty is listening,
if the Almighty is even there;
I plead Him to preserve our delicate symbiosis,
the perfect pandemonium that between us
we have developed on this fragile earthly plane.
Meanwhile I dream dreams of triumph,
of commercial success, of earning a comfortable living.
But under our duvet it rains on our parade all summer
and a succession of bedraggled wasps and ants
and assorted bothersome bastards conspire
to spoil our beautiful picnic.