Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs,
Or else forget the purpose of the night,
Forget their tea -- forget their appetite.
See with cross'd arms they sit -- ah! happy crew,
The fire is going out and no one rings
For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
A fly is in the milk-pot -- must he die
By a humane society?
No, no; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon,
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.
Arise! take snuffers by the handle,
There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding-sheet, ah me! I must away
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
'Alas, my friend! your coat sits very well;
Where may your tailor live?' 'I may not tell.
O pardon me -- I'm absent now and then.
Where might my tailor live? I say again
I cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd --
He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas'd.'
Exiled - Sentinel
How do I hate this job
let me count the waves
Poseidon’s icy blasts
torment of seadog knaves
slashing at my heels
billowing candle snuffers
intent upon a darkness
denuded of all buffers.
Fear holds me frozen
awash amid the fury
victim of a crooked judge
and trial without jury.
Clanging shackles bind me
in service to the sea
doing time on foaming shoal
never to be free.
4/11/2016
submitted to Sentinel – Quatrain Form – Poetry contest
sponsor – Eve Roper