A fête of decayed verse
engages these indigenes
of disgrace; there is no
sweet meat or bread fresh
on their plates but rubric
praise that ‘if you succour
me then I will grace you
measures of the same’
Though ego games and
make-believe at best it
still suggests the worst
is yet to come – embeds
their blinded heads
in disinvested bums
© 7 October 2009, I. D. Carswell
The picture illustrates the poem perfectly. The poem sings as it flows, and the contrast between the beauty of verse and the scathing comment on stupidity as its content, is striking, to say the least.
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