Posted in Poetry

Duck, Ditch and Dissemble

Sing a song of six-pence
a pocket full of whys
two and eighty Februarys
ground into a pie
and when the pie is opened
the years begin to bleat,
“Aren’t we all just little more
than lonely, roving sheep?”

He was in his concealing house
counting all his money
hidden wall(s) treet the mouse
cheese-faces bright and sunny

She was in the camouflage
eating cheese and wine
a fan to shade the ever-flaws
that fading personal shrine

and They were in the garden
hanging up the clothes
dirth-y laundry’s pardon
never truth disclose

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Mish has us contemplating the metaphorical mask at dVerse tonight for Poetics.  Join us!