Might is Trite

Visog

 

Coriolanus rampages throughout, leaving sawbonnne doctors
signed off sick, self medicating on left hand dog legs, shy and retirig,
retiring that is to pick discretely on spicy edibles and creosote
platelet dainties.
Let nature to its own devices carving fresh streams
through obsolescent new builds grown
measly cold on indifference.

Inner sanctified mood, a place where hubris wallows;
note those whose learned eyes speak of it in copious macabre volumes;
‘Cumin 61, your time is up’ reads the lesson;
not on this atomic watch, thought our Henry
counting unhatched reptiles down in the potting shed.
When Alice said and did the vault
we lived like gods; we ate like goldfish; we shat like lords;
at leisure we perfected
the makeshift trappings of a gobsheen,
chose worrying working titles that stuck defiantly
as stray dags to woolly umpers.
Meantime upstairs the Roofer
glued and riveted, exchanged laddish manecdotes,
it seems a revolutionary cream is made
available down the local dragstore