3 May 2021

Butcher, baker, candle maker, all glathered in a room,
Course time was late, earlier than noon.
No one had expected, what was yet to come.
Nothing to anticipate, recipe, or drum.
Butcher brought knifes, sticks and stone,
Baker broken spoon.
Candle wax, soap, and smoke were discord strewn.
No gold or silver ever found a place,
No one bowed their head, prayed holy grace.
Didn’t need a face.
What was put together would never last,
Was just a clump of things,
Older than the past.
Thought best lived with teeth and ***.
In the corner an old *** from witches brewed.
Threw all the pieces in for naught they knew.
Stuck out every way, never seemed a seam.
Kind of thing built by motley dream.
Wondered whether should be free,
This bit of dross poetry,
Looked a lot like me.