Nun In Friar Small-Bro's Grave---Yard Part 2
Continuation
With ghouls, unlearned, no stone’s unturned
to burnish blame with Nun’s proud name
and leave the midnight sky... scarred.
They raise their hats to copy cats
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
While rumours spread amongst the dead,
Nun stays the pace with saving grace,
and phantoms keep their face...marred.
The maggot digs neath twisted twigs
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
In tempests strong, Nun rings the gong
but fails to rise in vacant eyes -
he palms a one-eyed trump...card.
Nun sets her sail, to no avail
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
Nun asks him why a bird can’t fly.
His mouth, a rut, replies “tut, tut”,
with conscience painted white...tarred.
A mushroom mold has taken hold
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
“To fly aloft," he laughed and scoffed
“lay bare your breast! I’ll do the rest,
I’ll bless you in the church...yard”.
The golden rule's contrived for fools
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
He cast the bait and wouldn't wait -
once more defied, her wings denied,
the Kingfish is a bass...tard.
A 'no' said twice must pay the price
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
When day’s undone, and night’s begun,
Nun stirs a cup and turns face up;
she's feeling that she’s ill...starred.
’Tis such a crime to waste her prime
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
Nun plans to dine with sparkling wine
but sips instead a bitter red
served with a crystal glass...shard,
Behind the bog, beneath the fog
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
Well, minstrels fight beyond the night
and demons fete behind the gate,
while silence chokes the host...bard.
The angel sings with broken wings
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
The webs are spun neath dying sun;
and caught ensnared, her flight impaired,
Nun’s thoughts are how they’ll die...hard.
The puppet people storm the stee-
pled FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
And voices wail beyond the pale
“The old taboo - it echoes true -
Nun’s bound to have her way...barred”.
The schemes are strange and minds deranged
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
Ms.! Cast your nets, but hedge your bets -
there are no odds, where purple gods
and hungry idle ghosts...spar
with nameless gnomes in catacombs
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012
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