'LEGS ELEVEN'
So who is he? A nobody!
He spends his hours amongst the trees
Conversant with the birds and bees
Intent on making honey,
From all the wild flowers that abound
On heath or hedge or round the pond
That so far have escaped
The digger and the saw,
He spends his pointless time
In formulating useless rhyme,
Preferring it to connurbation's call.
He's short and fat and called a pratt
So stays well clear of not-so-polite society.
He's awkward when it comes to dance
At discos alone he watches in a trance
Cavorting people hilarious and happy.
For in the moment whilst it lasts
It is indeed the very thing he's not,
So back he goes to ancient plot
To fight the weeds, that with such vigour grow.
And sow some seeds, to hatch some plans,
To smell a rose before the petals fall.
He likes to think but cannot recall
The necessary word or phrase for all
The ideas he would like to entertain;
The Theosaurus always by his side
To help him when the term avoids his memory.
How frustrating can it be
To muddle up the history
Of ancient civilisations, tribes,
That now lay claim to territory?
Whose instincts unconstrained just run amok
Drip red across a bloody dictionary.
Expressionless yet still he feels the pain
Of others far away who cannot speak,
Frustrated by his inability to influence
Those cold and brutal forces, wreathed in smiles.
What is that word again that Freudian-like
The brain refuses to recall?
Ah that is it – 'impotent' – that's what we are,
Witnessing an unmatched horror
But too cowed, intimidated, detatched,
We hide and fail to act or speak -
When to our shame, the very stones cry out.
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