A Tempest Is At Hand
Come, see the battle in that ship,
I see through these binoculars.
Master pilot fights for his soup
With up in air his dull sword;
Horribly the chief mates squabble
To gobble a slice of bread,
And authority’s ragged diapers
Pours anarchy through.
Handsail swiftly draws down
To veil Themis’ blushing face,
For pirates molest her;
Everyone fights on the deck;
They scream but no one listens,
And tall towers fall suddenly flat.
The ship floats hither - thither,
For there’s no one to steer her
And sailors just clutch at straws,
While a tempest is at hand.
Sept. 24, 2020
Clutching at Straws Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
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