Listen up,
You know-it-all
City-bred dandy
Wordsmith—the poem
You’re writing should end up
Down-to-earth discriminating,
Say a finely winnowed product
Triggered by wave upon wave
Of gulls lifting off
From the nearest
Harbor some thirty
Miles away only
To land here
In the boondocks
With the first light
Of day, foraging
For sustenance
Amongst bales and bales
Of—you got it—freshly cut
Seedy hay.
No comments:
Post a Comment