Perfidious
Nether melted at belle’s charm
Tethers on the edge of jigsaws
Preponderous perfidious
Could not leave a vacuum
At the centre of his game
Would never put an orange
Where it might feel strange
Slither mouth’d
His words are worms
Simply there to aerate
Whilst for some, they-line-them-up, as bait.
Like goblets made of silver
Housed in the strong-room of Lady Cadiver
Just waiting to get out
Stumbling together like trash sounds
Like at the start of London’s marathon
Heaps of sheep, askance, chased by python
A hungry chappy
Set there to fill-a-gap.
Is it not the forked tongue that whispers idiocies
Then paints them all up by powers to indices.
Powdering over those fine cracks
As eatable as soft white flour’d baps.
But I prefer the imperfect tones
Slim of volume, though heavily bound
Charming better than many a hocus pocus
But in the meantime this will never be my opus.
Shafees
20th December 2017, South London
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