Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos
the trio we know as “the Fates”
Were discussing the fate of some poet
while calmly sucking on dates.
“At best Sisters, he’s merely adequate.
Sure, he knows his rhythm and rimes.
But when they compile an anthology
will his poems merit more than three lines?”
“Some of his verses are Humorous”
“You’ll grant me that, Clotho, at least.”
“Other times he takes himself too serious,
and behaves like some priggish high priest”
“Atropos, where is my measuring rod?
All too soon he’ll meet us face to face.”
“Here is the fate I have chosen.
Take your shears and mark well the place.”
The fruit made Atropos’ grasp slippery
A lock of hair fell in her face.
The poet got more than allotted
It was sheer dumb luck in his case