I've woven a wicker basket that leaks feeling and holds thought;
Better and better the container, shipped to the edge of the world,
Appearing at this first mile before the layers can be predicted
By any but the grossly overcompetent. Verses are the vice of
The musician that cannot play: doing nothing is the lingua
Shibboleth for the gate crashers who stumbled in with a scent
Of a plan and the instinct for strategy. Napoleon would be proud
On tiptoes from the island, looking across the water to try to
See the land once conquered, now mocking, fortified from
Imperial projects by wax paper (no better prevention than
A mind made up).
Roman Ryan 