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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
Copyright ©
T Wignesan
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