A fête of decayed verse
engages these indigenes
of disgrace; there is no
sweet meat or bread fresh
on their plates but rubric
praise that ‘if you succour
me then I will grace you
measures of the same’
Though ego games and
make-believe at best it
still suggests the worst
is yet to come – embeds
their blinded heads
in disinvested bums
© 7 October 2009, I. D. Carswell
Ivan Donn Carswell
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-vestment-i/
