Pound

Ryan Pfeiffer

Pound

Wow these pound O throstle songs
heard while set surround tower greens, make one
thrive for three pence
and a billowing robin
for ones own keepsake

speaking only in grunts
when condescension is brought
among lucent King and Queen
draped in gold purple crimson throne
spotted with horrid thrombus sores
poking holes in equality aloud

You will rank up among monarch, your power
now allowing rant without that vile dither, your power
exceeding the amount of crushed
little bird bones and wasted air sacks
unswelled, no longer flowing upward
or along in a curling mass, no longer
a ballooning cherry bulge.

Save me Aristocratic grey-sayers
My song giver has died and now
the nature of my democrat is dead beside
the blooded bones and frail crimson clouds of feather
no longer flow upward or along in a curling mass
no longer a ballooning cherry bulge.