This poem was published by Spillwords Press on 15th May, 2019
The amassing tradesman and the sweating sportsman
Bolts’ man down the van, and miserly herdsman up the tons
The unwaged townsman with his untested defense
And the spirited conman with his no-grounds pledge
The crowned clowns and the clowned crowns, all be
In ace mansions and feared headquarters’ bounds,
Some on thrones, seated, others on girly turning chairs-
Sated, save those broke eating crumbs, squatted thereunder.
The shooting hunter with his hounding banter,
The hooking lass with her fooling blush, age long
The heavy drunkard, bevy-loving, quitting his home, humming song
For the nervy server billing his looks, those crooks nature bid play
The politics chap, tiring, filching for his consort’s bliss
And the pitiable games’ weeklies’ fan keeping busy
The polished inspector sullied for despicable backhand,
And the worrying sick fading lazily for causes manmade
The bearded guru with his loads of wisdom, fitting their own
And the ‘real’ man, in his haste, late, overtaken, by chance, by fate;
In this time that is small and space that is fast, there no doors be,
All clutch the same blade, each working his best bed.
