Epicalyx oh so very near
Somewhere near the changeover
Where charades are with us all
Lies the indignant with indigestible shame.

While others melliferous in their toil
Mime to melodic sounds of flitch freshly hewn
There lies the sisyplean unrepentant
Just an undercurrent a susurrate
But nothing to countenance their fears.

Though we may see the lacrimal
Lacteal in its endurance
Its known that opprobrious thoughts
Become expressed in all that’s said.

But unlike the spillikin
They will not bend just break
And timbrels shout the redemption
Of souls never lost in the first place.

Ignoble or not ignis fatuus so be it
Born no effigy, but fit to burn
You may regret the picot tying you
Its too late, too late to save the way
Gone like all the rest
The rime has settled this is home.

So now the spoonbills home to roost
Want their share of what’s to be had
Vacuous of any wherewithal
The wherewithal for you and me
No lariat to tie them down
They make hay while our sun shines.

And effuse the tired old man
His effrontery the joy of age
Buffet and bump the sentiments
But the drudge is harder to cure.

And though we live like hyperboreans
We are no madrigal, this is no disguise
We do not live the pan-mutuel
After all this is the real world – inst it?

GRUM

* I make no apologies for the dense language used – I am angry!