Fledging Rome knowing only wormbegging poemsongs
As throng the ere-longing throats of recent egglodgers.
Lacking planting balance to remove one’s own socks without falling
Soft-pated, showing flashes of patent fury that they’ll make their fashion.
Avast this Carthaginian rabble
Will the well-trained legions of allegiant Rome, wolf haver.
“Is that what the books say?” One nods. Slammed is gavel.
The tyrant as upstart, with all youth’s fizzy untiring
Rang the bell as Lord asked, slump shouldered, o’er-retiring.
Dust covered the discoloured prophecies the seers were ordered to parse
Before the codices could be handled by diseased manacle beef of mortals
Permitting laws were passed by a senate given pause, to much applause.
Consulted with right cause with astronomically auspicious timing
The books though ancient strange gift had, seeing reality’s rhyming;
The shifting patterns which recur, which our slurring slattern cur mind
Fails determinedly to fruitfully observe. In the book’s curved chamber
Dust by scant light hooked could be heard like a nearby brook.
The pale priests feared, derided, and admired in like parcel
The mystical sparsity of the Grecian grimoire’s arsenal.
Hannibal ad portas
Pray do not lose hope!
Unimportant, decreed our leaders.
So we did as we were told.
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment