Gregory Stanford Poet Rhyme

The Lost Land of Lyonesse

All the dishes fell down broken
Favorite cups, you won’t believe
Smashed to bits, but it’s unspoken 
Myths don’t mention human grief
They don’t want us to come close
Private troubles doesn’t count
If you ask, nobody knows
What was their crime about 
The collective guilt is fake
There is no such thing on earth
Otherwise we’re God’s mistake
From the accident of birth
Trevelyan, a sole survivor
Is the one we should remember
See the picture of white rider
On eleventh of November
Of one thousand ninety nine 
He escaped the great excess
Of the punishment, confined
To the Land of Lyonesse
Then the plot disintergrates 
To the pieces that don’t fit
Well together, so it fades
To the dishes crashed in bits..

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