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Villanelle: Cowered Crushed Cramped Cold In the Pit of Our Stomachs

Villanelle: Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs We drag our ego thrones saddled on stooping lean backs Fiendish liege Lords’ furnace mouths whiplash at run amoks None can bear the thought shrunken image left on dry docks Unconsoled by doctoral degrees or skills won on bent backs Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs The terrifying shame of being left to rot on torrid tarmacs The will to keep going in the face of spites and silly smacks Fiendish liege Lords’ furnace mouths whiplash at run amoks Les mille vices and pin-pricks we put up with as decoy ducks While His Majesty Liege Ego rides in pomp pitfalls on tracks Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs All mere paying passengers grovelling on groaning stomachs No tenant fit to reign in his own fiefdom his baggage unpacks Fiendish liege Lords’ furnace mouths whiplash at run amoks He who runs not with hares but howls with hounding packs Is he content to walk straight smile strung on lips and locks Cowered crushed cramped cold in the pit of our stomachs Fiendish liege Lords’ furnace mouths whiplash at run amoks © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014

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