poetics

UnMaker to Prosperity

I hope you’re hungry.
So long we think the years to be All that we are is all we see Think nothing of mortality             But when we fall sick We tend to scream, perhaps to plea             And wither so quick It happens then, though hardly fair That some be well year after year The old codger or youthful heir             Fritters his income He flounders time with drink an’ cheer             And ills evade ‘um Here aft hae I, wi’ sober heart, A trick to ye I do impart To break the bonds, if ye be smart             Its costs a small toll Mere shrubs and sprouts, for crafted art,             and wholly, your soul On myrkr nicht, the winter moon, Beckon in the chitterin’ croone To sup by hearth with silver spoon             And evoke the switch With time to warm, and time to prune             You’ll see her, the Witch Please’d now with vigor renew’d She needeth now a thing or two To here begin the chalice brew             Cangle together Roots and growths, best accrued             In loathsome weather Thistle shorn by enrage’d snake, Ale-drenched tops of Heather makes Veiled worlds of Faerie shake             Be wary o’ the moors Where planted there against your sake             Crawls the thorn’d Gorse Brave a venture down through the fog Scrape the slime o’ bonny frog Engaging him in dialogue             When hear ye the knell Find the tonic of Myrtle’s bog             In upturned Bluebell Hae ye still the foolish mettle Gather ’round the boiling kettle Frae the flames, invoke the Devil             O’ the sanguine mind Consummating vital revel             O’ the horrid kind Drink the cordial! And convalesce A life of leisure and excess And liberate of all distress             Concluding the feast, Will come the time for recompense,             To face ye, the Beast.