Another Gold

Another Gold Far from profit’s crass allure, At a place somewhat obscure, A poet sweeps his shepherd’s lyre; He sings of gold, of heaven’s fire. No. not of gold that Midas stores Behind fast-bolted treasury doors But of gold, that, eve and dawn, Touches sheaves of ripened corn. More emeralds than all wealth can gain Has to these eyes the verdant plain. Without the mind all precious stones Have lesser worth than dead men’s bones. The original prompt for the last poem was one I wrote on being requested to resign from a computer company. Far from profit’s crass allure At a place somewhat obscure, Gordon preaches now Cobol. Fortran and, I believe, Algol, Unto flocks of Gaelic birds, Black-faced sheep and long-haired herds. In Acton’s fleshpots, in his den, The spotlight first is beamed on Ken. Beware the luscious woman’s wiles Or you’ll forget your disks and files. It would clearly be a sin To make no mention of dear Lin. May married bliss attend thy way And commensurate be thy pay. Sandra’s performance sets the pace Robin’s too a similar case. His hunting prowess earns him fame In matters that concern big game. Flower power propels this happy throng Which means that little can go wrong As long as Rose your leader be. May rays of fortune shine on thee On yon high Olympic mountain Where Gord and Mary have been scouting. There beneath the royal wall Our Ted flogs bangles on his stall. My ditty now has reached its span Remember me, the also-ran.