Sycamore, Swing
Sycamore tree, swing thee far?
On a crescent line?
Yes, sir. As I strive for par:
I think of the vine.
Due, friend, to its supple reach?
Twist and turn a-right.
Spark within me, I beseech.
Flicker, fly, and fight.
Well, young man, mythology.
Legends of the old?
Ancient is the redwood? Sea.
Lava makes the gold.
Sword, point heavenward and stand.
Enforce hell's command.
Fear severe, have you been planned?
Fire, forms frequent fanned?
Doubt, without? Tough taut to tout?
Down the waterspout.
Lily pad, repair or rout?
Flagrantly to flout.
Yet organized the strong ones step.
Each in rhythmic racks.
Soldier, load thy gun with pep.
Notes hang up with tacks.
City bells, alarums.
What message will you ring?
Plume volcanic, ply thy plums.
Blister as ye bring.
Crumbs. Chaos, thy star dances.
Dissonant its flow.
Fate and Fortune, white chances.
Black the broken bow.
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