calculated entry in the class of circumspection
reasoning, bargaining the last few drams of spirits
the serum of one’s foolishness. truth be told in a cold pint head
16 ounces of pure warlord dripping down the side of the glass.
marching ‘cross the fmily’s’ land the bagpipes and the drums
the skirts are flying high me boys, let’s bust ’em in the shins
no matter nothing knowing, nothing owing save the garden say
of a crokked hobbled garish man with sundown in his eyes.
fifty year old walking stick worn through the lion’s head
carrid proud like a saber on a limestone statuette the littles can’t decide which to lust for, which to desecrate
imagination sits with the marbles in a drawer.
slingshot song and dancing blasting out the lead paned windows
wing whipped curtains sway this way like giant mockingbirds
those damned lads and lasses have forgotten how to play
hard pressed to find one ever learned how to sing.