There’s a gloss that gets lost
when galoshes are tossed
and you’re a cap doffed to Bosh in the quagmire
Like an old tinder lighter
light lingers politely
then delightfully flutters its flag higher
Paling of pigment, stigma insistent
that a pig in a pickle can’t stickle o’er satire
Flat tyre tires two tawdry town criers
exhausts alone left to backfire
Black friar flies a little above mire
to begin brewing beauty whose bitterness inspires
a little littering
of the mud of our muddle
over medals that are glittering away
If they flicker, will they stay?
Will good vicar duly stray
to the broad, easy road from the narrow pathway?
What good does wrath lay
other than sighs inside the incisors of Bathory?