Tuesday, 17 December 2013

Loon Attic

What fresh calamities of woe?
   What dread deadbeat feet stamp
With felony and larceny, descending
   Like death’s dark shadow-lamp?

What lunacy of thought is this?
   When caught between two fools,
Who flap their hands like dying flames
   Before the fever cools.

It’s done, to everyone’s relief.
   Cars smash, wind howls, thieves hide,
Incongruous, like mournful friends
   Berating one who died.

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