The Morning of the Hurricanes
The Horsemen, holding broken reins
The Morning of the Hurricanes,
Sigh 'it's no use, it's all in vain,
The King will soon surrender'
The Bishops weep, the Rook's long gone,
And Pieces, pacing, pale and wan,
Watch Queen be ravaged Pawn by Pawn,
Her Knight dares not defend her
They wonder why they ever came,
They have No One that they can blame,
They have no face, they have no name,
They're black and white, transgender
The feeble minded Cleric clowns,
Mouths hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds,
While Fantom of the Opera frowns,
And follows dazed dissenters
The empty handed Vagabond
Smokes stale cigars, strokes faded Blondes
While wailing at the walls beyond,
And kneels before he enters
He's gaping through stained window panes,
While waiting for the Hurricanes,
He's spinning round and round in chains,
Attached to life's tormentors
The Savants serve the underfed
While Jackals jape at saws once said,
And Crows, collecting scattered bread,
Adorn, with crumbs, the platter
The Pirate whets his wooden leg,
With pupils dull and visage vague,
And if instead he's served the plague,
It really doesn't matter
His Princess, pale, no longer reigns,
She's hiding from, the Dwarf explains,
The coming of the Hurricanes
The Stones stare, pointing at her
The rustic clocks with spindled spokes
Remind the Mimes to tell the Folks
[...] Read more
poem by Terry O'Leary
Added by Poetry Lover
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