VII. the Friends of his Youth.
Laughter not time destroyed my voice
And put that crack in it,
And when the moon's pot-bellied
I get a laughing fit,
For that old Madge comes down the lane,
A stone upon her breast,
And a cloak wrapped about the stone,
And she can get no rest
With singing hush and hush-a-bye;
She that has been wild
And barren as a breaking wave
Thinks that the stone's a child.
And Peter that had great affairs
And was a pushing man
Shrieks, 'I am King of the Peacocks,'
And perches on a stone;
And then I laugh till tears run down
And the heart thumps at my side,
Remembering that her shriek was love
And that he shrieks from pride.
That man is on the reservoir of my toilet. You know, the big tank that holds the water before it is flushed into the bowl? That one. But not that poem.
It was nice. I don't know unto whom I am more like, today: the woman or the man. What about you?
Posted by: bob at October 22, 2004 12:12 AM