The prudish gazeThat graven stance
The profusive feelings
Sucumb and entrance.
Inept fervour of the working man
Living and breathing on the master's land.
You touch your hat
And bury your face
You shuffle away
But knowing your place
The princely gait
That gracious nose
The crowning glory
In its dying throes
Inane pleasure of the working man
He ends his life on the master's land.
He bowed and scraped
And licked its boots
Instead of death
He feeds the roots.
'79/'80
© 2013 S Evans All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment