The blind does his walking,
With his trusted staff a- tapping,
His approach broadcasting,
Measured steps minding,
As his fall is his loathing
The driest on the subject of color,
Unless as a fairy tale,
To not here display valor,
As he ‘d a trillion times fail
Sure to be begging your pardon;
Upon describing Yellow
And completely in London,
As you portray the More Mellow…
Nevertheless equipped with the keener than normal,
Condition-warranted wisdom far from formal,
Fingers expertly feeling one twice
To later fish one out thrice:
Ears magically catching the faintest mumble
From the heady and the humble
And nostrils familiar with the smell of his workers
And body odor of housebreakers.
Categories:
housebreakers, anger, birth, books, fate,
Form: Rhyme