From out of a
lair, herded with old dew dipped years
Comes
fathers and mothers with muster-seed hair;
Black
beast bent backs, from old windy spit years…
Days:
dying, dying, faster than a seesaw can swing.
Whose
children could love or leave, wooed by nights
Of
a gibbous moon, no more than bits in a wick!
With
blush, sultry skulking coal red wicked-eyes!
The
wolf, in the cotton white hood, watches his prey:
To
rip his heart out of sandalwood, if need be.
Sleep,
the good sleep, forever sleep, and sleep deep:
Cries
the youthful rajahs, wolfs of backyard hamlets!
Wooed
and starved for their old hobnail fathers to die!
They
tell the innocent lie, fast and smooth, honeyed.
Rooting
out, the goose-tale swine, they call Father!
The
devil-bird lauds their wickedness: animal-eyed!
Sleep,
the good sleep, forever sleep, and sleep deep:
The
wolf in his baaing white cotton hood cries under a gibbous moon, frolicking the
latch of the coffer:
“It’s
taking too long for him to croak!” —beware, the
Crook
will seek a way, sly and sure, meek and mellow:
To
place a Camel Spider under his pillow, the sly devil.
No: 4743/ April 1,
2015
