Hoping For Yesters To Give In Morrow.
In a silent chatt'ring hall, meant for ease
Is a silent market place, where tons drip
in clattering flutter of flapping wings
And awe, yea awe of bushment by vain lips
on soft flesh as windy air rumbl'ng splutter
and fling cloths like chopper fans blow'ng rustle leaves.
Here is a tensed calmness, faithless hoping_
on seat we sit are heat as buttocks flits
to relax the stress, we brave while we shy
of others peeping and say to us 'locale'
Thought me I was of bush where loss are gross
of brains, truth was wrong as my physique proved
either but the drifty rump was a mess.
Eyes could see as we sat cake-like on box.
Waiting, hoping to be attended to
at the banking hall, we're morrow today
whilst the yesters are lining whilst we queue.
"words from the innocent mind"