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Idle autumn’s Day
Idle autumn’s Day
An idle bower harbors the Warbler,
As mellow mizzle dampens the understory.
Sharpened soil frosted dark and dewy,
Sentinel he perches atop an accented gully.
And staunch, with breast distended wholly
Crooned a rotund berceuse, sprit churning softly,
Fluting his sonorous acapella freely.
Then with a sharp emanation of his reed,
And with direct lead from his bayoneting beak,
He falls upon the idle arachnid.
Laden and drunken by its mellow mead,
Bower’d beneath a bud of moly.
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Karma, what goes around comes around, life isn't fair, what is comely may be sinister, whatever.