Fifty folks hardly were

Or: Nearer cousins zoa them

End my lordship, I am tired, and old.
No feebleness. No cold-cream or dreams.
I want to talk to fifty folks though low,
poor folks and hard folks through and through.
Son one, I’ll begin this epic with you.
I was made by your tail. One of us made it.
Son two, I broke our mother in twain.
Three, I bought ourselves a mired brain.
Four, I learned to count and ignored it.
I gorged on carrots and wept like a pig.
The fifth son burrowed into my leg.
Sixth son sick him he leapt into a drain.
Next one I cut in half for the next one.
Beneficiary him he wound up a banksman.
Eighth one him he tells me from my shoulder
what to do and what things I shouldn’t do.
Ninth boy I tossed his insides filthy,
him being the company that is company
to please, and scarcely close to kin.
The rest of those juveniles they only dined in.


~ by Jeremy on May 26, 2012.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: