There's a penny for every sob story,
and a dime for every winner.
A dollar for the tax collector,
and Benjamin pays himself.
But you, my friend, are forgiven,
forget toil and bore;
where you lounge on laurels,
others hunger for more.
There's nonsense in fiction,
truth in law.
But law guarding fiction:
the beast's toothy maw.
You write the laws, my friend,
you are the fiction and truth,
you are the red hand,
you are the beast's jagged tooth.
On and on, the mercy rolls
Are you winning?
Check the polls!
Is it fiction?
No one knows,
but the crown drapes from your head,
to your toes.
Life worms its way into your moth holes...
99 problems; 101 dalmations: you do the math.
You plug the holes with your fingers;
end up with no hands to stop the flood.
That empty feeling lingers,
so does the blood.
Everything's shot to cheese,
but the truth isn't cheesy.
You beg for no mercy,
but you don't say please.
In the end, there's no mention
of how you were spared.
Dare to infract again,
only devils have dared.
I started with the third and fourth lines of the sixth stanza:
"You plug the holes with your fingers;
end up with no hands to stop the flood,"
that I had written weeks ago and had actually intended as a proverb for my fantasy novel, "Brightvoid," which I am currently planning/writing.
Since I had misplaced the note with those lines and put them into my poetry notes, I sat there, staring at those words and decided, "You know what, I'll do it."
Those words will still be employed in my novel, but they'll also be employed in this poem. They must be poor, working two jobs, poor things :(
Enjoy!
DEW