The Uneasiness Of Motives
They also serve who wait there to return
Those bunyons on the toes left yet to spurn
Those pilgrims from the slipper to the sole.
They always wait whose turn will never come
They sit on their highly publicized bums,
They disallow the fervour of the numb.
They simply rot who never speak their piece
All slathered to a shine with bacon grease,
All tongue-tied in a quicksand of despair
They ever watch whose eyes are too remote
To circumvolve the orbit of the goat
All count the waves upon their moat
They barely warrant warmth who covet wine
Or place dead pigeons on the railway line
By accident; still less if by design.
They often sneeze who eat their food too fast
The peppers are what make the sneezes last,
obliterating traces of their past.
They fade away, whose ghostly residue
Recalls the odour of a vanished stew
Refuting all that wiser men hold true
They sit and quip of politics,
Relying upon mirrors for their tricks.
Spitting out a morbid stew,
And losing all the detail in the mix
The ghostly residue returns,
Smelling of the ashes from the urns.
That shatter every hope as heaven burns
| Contributors: | TG, Stacy, Roland, P, Nancee, Bop. |
| Poem finished: | 24th January 1997. |