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.
No comments:
Post a Comment