The stainless wage of words –
Squatters’ rights, steadfast bliss –
Has ten men trodden,
Watered down, in
Less time than
One could accrue.
Brandishing a holy lot,
Spartans did their infants send
Rose-bathed, honeyed,
Gift-wrapped to the
Furthest brink
That men could go.
I watch you march in prouder strides,
Yet have no conflict fraying –
Where birds might hum and nest
Before their journey’s won –
Would you make folly of those ten
Through bombast of conception? –
Warriors too, there, mighty, fell
And day was wound undone.
For neither is embitterment
Nor is the smiling scorn
A fair depiction of your rank –
High-headedness will none.
As silent as a fettered horse
Does reach unto the grass
I fear that you will soon, my dear,
Fall upon your arse.
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