There is no more the day myself has felt
Any less trodden, than by but one foot,
Or the other, that upon visage, treads myself—
Having ne’er footed; just stepping afoot.
In discourse with many a speechless sole
(And on this plank they do so surely know),
As the Jester, King and Serf share a soul;
Myself mottled by weighted rugs and Sew’.
However, not uncommon, but undesirable;
Me, the shelf, henceforth that life should sit,
And growing infinitely measurable,
But in the courtship which I may never fit;
A chipper note does clip, trip, and stomp,
And made gaudy by orchestras of brooms,
Spiff-swiff-sweep, occasional drops-and-tromps,
Wherein, a fresh mop sops the wear o’ doom.
No comments:
Post a Comment