|
He sank into their calculations |
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And snorted on the stench |
|
Of their arithmetic. |
|
Looked for the boy who was hanging his head low, |
|
More trophies than ideas. To follow their pretence. |
|
With a scowl in his pocket and a smile on his face |
|
He followed with obidience |
|
And fell in the Nettles. |
|
Afterwards those spikey whispers said he bought his own rope. |
|
And skipped the bits they loathed. |
|
Didn't scramble to find a dock leaf to capture back our hope |
|
To advice his mind had closed |
|
He lost all of his footholes. |
|
He was a toothpick! |
|
And the garlic and the cinder upon the path |
|
Had failed to blunt or hinder the slow collapse |
|
Clinging to the doorframe he was dragged |
|
Off to a reminder of where he had been. |
|
With a smile in his pocket |
|
And a scowl on his face |
|
He had nowhere to flee |
|
So sat content in the Nettles. |
