[Richard G]

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v2
The Knight & Drey


You know the pub, its paint too worn
to welcome in the passer-by.
You know the street, the one that sank
beneath the city's rising tide.

You know the kind that drink in there,
each one as empty as a glass.
A place that's haunted by the living.
Which is why you scurry past.
Afraid to enter, quench your thirst,
for what you see might give you pause:
the grizzled things, discarded shells,
those veterans of the Squirrel Wars.

Their baffles, spinners, cages, wires,
the notebooks, logs and master plans,
their Sun Tzu quotes, their certainty
that Nature Must Submit to Man,
all came to naught. All came to this
slow twilight at the long road's end.
Behind a blue and boot-kicked door
their sorrows drown. And rise again.

Their Romes have burned, their Troys all fell,
their Kassels, overrun, surrendered.
The feeders, filled at such a cost,
they can't forget and so remember
how it was they fought across
the Washing Line, the Border's Edge.
Those Rubicons which led to woods
of squirrels nesting in their heads.

Above the bar an epitaph,
in pokerwork, just seven words:
a sentiment as old as Time
reads, What We Did Was For The Birds.


_________

S2/L3-6 was
Wednesay's Quiz and Karaoke,
but, something sees you scurry past.
Afraid to enter, quench your thirst,
for what awaits might give you pause:


_____________________




The Knight & Drey


You know the pub, its paint too worn
to welcome in the passer-by.
You know the street, the one that sank
beneath the city's rising tide.

You know the kind that drink in there,
each one as empty as a glass.
And you've heard it called "The Nuthouse"
which is why you scurry past.
Afraid to enter, quench your thirst
for what you see might give you pause -
the grizzled things, discarded shells,
those veterans of the Squirrel Wars.

Their baffles, spinners, cages, wires,
the drawers full of grand master plans,
their Sun Tzu quotes and certainty
that Nature Must Submit to Man,
all came to naught. All came to this
slow twilight at the long road's end.
Behind a blue and boot-kicked door
their sorrows drown. And rise again.

Their Romes have burned, their Troys all fell,
their Kassels, overrun, surrendered.
The feeders, filled at such a cost,
they can't forget and so remember
how it was they came to cross
the Washing Line, the Borders' Edge.
Those Rubicons which led to woods
of squirrels nesting in their heads.

Above the bar an epitaph,
in pokerwork, just seven words –
a sentiment as old as Time –
What We Did Was For The Birds.



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