The Queen’s a bint, he said, turns
Out he di’n’t dance with that faggot
At the ball after all but told this clanger:
-
the Don and the Naff walk into a bar…, but
There’re no humours in sassafras tea
Or the trajectory of a falling star.
What if he’d said, instead, that it was the love
Sleeping, that the head remained steadfast,
True, that the arm turned up not faithless but
Human? Maybe
‘Lay your sleeping love, my head,
Faithless on my human arm’?
Which begs the question faithful, which begs but
Human, does not answer.
©
2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved
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