display | more...

A Fuss of lines that drives the feet
To scuffle shoes at frenzied pace,
The mangy bard repeats the verse
With lyre and pipe to spread the rhyme.

And who is he, the loathsome scrounge,
To write the nobles' dance?
Where maidens move and lechers lounge,
What lured them to this manse?

The sawdust cake, the gown of leaves
The swift defaulted bonds of Dream.
The cup of rust, the rusted cup,
Whose bracky water chokes the child.

Wordmongers' Masque: Poets' Ball

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.