Listen up, Bhikkhus. Like I was talking,
In a deep voice to Agents of Moria,
And said, ‘Drums, drums in the deep!
Have you lost your calling-card to Middle-
Earth? Down the onyx-steps, you will arrive,
In a Wax-Museum.’ The company,
Has grown like thorns by-the-wayside,
Pretty much the Wicked Witch besides.
Now, the Torturers face has taken a glow
Of its own, and the scissors are sharp,
In his hands. The Tomorrow-doors are black,
And so close to your nose they’re decades lost.
There is a doorbell you answer yourself,
And green fields with rich grass and cows,
That’s quite it: the Cow Jumped Over the Moon,
And landed with a thumping noise, bah-boom.
Springtime, in the world, the Dooms-day Clock,
As written in scripture, foretold The End.
A thousand sparrows in a thousand hands,
Will die a thousand deaths before they die.
__________
Copyright 2024 Jeffrey Merk
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