He almost fears his pen has grown too cold;
From all the bitter words he's left untold.
As such; the diligent good clerk despairs;
Our scribe was ever one to put on airs.

"A coward's spiteful way, that of the ink;
Or so the foolish man would surely think"
He mumbles to himself with latent ire;
His peevish tongue a whip of caustic wire.

"I do agree" admits the crafty clerk;
No effort shown to hide his telltale smirk.
He wipes his nose to clean another smudge
And toils to make his broken pencil budge.

So rarely are these so-called lords aware;
(And if they were, they'd certainly not care)
Of any condescending base disdain;
For who of stature would inspect his chain?




Poetry by Thomas Selnes
Read 1397 times
Written on 2006-11-22 at 16:06

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