For some it may seem rather brash,
To weave the tale of Edmond Thrashe,
Sans his whippings from the lash,
Or lacking proper pomp and dash
But knowing this,
It seems amiss,
To punish crimes,
With stale remiss,
Of facts all gleaned,
From prior bliss,
For timely fates,
Or demon's kiss
Whispering, they calmly nod,
But digits on the hand of God,
Clutching firmly,
Wield the ****
Of bodies stacked,
And heaped with laud
Weave the strings,
From gilded threats,
Of unpaid dues,
Or ancient debts,
"Steal the night and place your bets,
On Thrashe's bloodied pirouettes,
Of shame!"
Stepping firmly from the plains,
He waltzes stiff as Old Lorraine,
In blackened boots with clamps which strain,
His sickly, dirt-encrusted frame
Bouts of anger curse his throat,
While he staggers towards the boat,
With withered boards, and broken oars,
****** by visions",
They all wrote
Unfurl the sails,
And set for Wales,
'Tis there he'll "thrash" among the gales!
Of tacit seas,
And growing dread,
While wishing bullets,
To his head,
Which never'll rear,
Their crooked lead,
'Round here...
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
For some it may seem rather brash,
To weave the tale of Edmond Thrashe,
Sans his whippings from the lash,
Or lacking proper pomp and dash
But knowing this,
It seems amiss,
To punish crimes,
With stale remiss,
Of facts all gleaned,
From prior bliss,
For timely fates,
Or demon's kiss
Whispering, they calmly nod,
But digits on the hand of God,
Clutching firmly,
Wield the ****
Of bodies stacked,
And heaped with laud
Weave the strings,
From gilded threats,
Of unpaid dues,
Or ancient debts,
"Steal the night and place your bets,
On Thrashe's bloodied pirouettes,
Of shame!"
Stepping firmly from the plains,
He waltzes stiff as Old Lorraine,
In blackened boots with clamps which strain,
His sickly, dirt-encrusted frame
Bouts of anger curse his throat,
While he staggers towards the boat,
With withered boards, and broken oars,
****** by visions",
They all wrote
Unfurl the sails,
And set for Wales,
'Tis there he'll "thrash" among the gales!
Of tacit seas,
And growing dread,
While wishing bullets,
To his head,
Which never'll rear,
Their crooked lead,
'Round here...
This poem is told from multiple perspectives.
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