Too much is in style of steady rhyme
We don’t believe you
We don’t believe that it’s true
What you say about rye and woe
As you drink from your porter and glimpse
Through the glass bottom at the ass
Who follows you down the treated path
About the flame of your midst
Like moth on the flutter of cotton
Not silk coccon.
Eating from mulberry as on the Silk
Road to oblivion.
The Silk Path of bellbottom shangrila’s
Believing it is whole whereas it is part
Of the promiscuous age of passing.
Welcome to the homestead
Where we all have found that
It is just a home but a fleet of ships
Shall not surpass the doom
Of our Masters at Arms.
Copyright B E Saunders 2016