who's got a djembe?
from the wetted woods we stepped into the road
of hard dusty gravel as travelers on foot and fear
in the lulling ether of time and dew pass beautiful dark places
rent and bonded in hallow light and dreary near
wrens rest in the cedar boughs to pick the buds of seemly traces
afoot at unsat porches plein vain the nightness to behold.
the magistrate's raven is a stark pretty baron,
who fiddles his way through the day.
the flying and singing are second to being
the thorn of our dear rose of sharon.
If the lady is blind who justice supposes
and the bells toll in slovenly swells,
if daysdim is handsome to night's dreary ransom,
the crow's crown be the truth he proposes.
simewy sinewy runs the cockle in the furrow.
she begs a break of thyme but it's it buried in the burrow.
the sun is up but stars are down as the twlight lulls the town
while chill'ns skut about in rhyme and set the books out for tomorrow.