'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.