3rd
“Watering Hole” part 5
Five minutes behind the final day,
You see, of a new silo opening its roof,
The now-blind guests baled in hay on the first floor
Meet their maker, in the market.
We loosen the leashed Dogs, they are small
And fetid after tea with the Pigs,
And O the wrenches we have to toss
To get them off our legs.
For their humping is another, purer song,
Which if we listened would seem not unlike
One-upmanship. They have it down,
So to speak, and innovate wildly through the air.
Were we following the same orders, were our possession complete,
Were our occupation over, when we saw each other again
Would we disregard what hadn’t happened and commence with the making so?
In pre-occupation France, wasn’t it grand how father occupied father, baroness
possessed baroness? Even an approving signal from the top that our smoke
breaks in half hours before dawn seemed long enough was too quiet.
We were busy baking sooty loaves, sheets of butter cusps, you see,
And ill apostrophized to thee.
Some tumble, others grace, but most plod visibly neverward.
That’s a ship I’ve never been on, but one I’m all too familiar with.
I wrote the plans. I printed my name, then signed your life away.
And what a deal. Get me your femme, I’d like to have words with her.
But not to sing all day.
