Scribblers who take their work seriously
Will become the butchers of oxen ghosts
For there may be no proof for this puddle
But your eyes are cooking this roast
The side of a page is half of a cow
Who might have been wild if not for the now
Whose presence is frail and hard to defeat
Emerging as is from pasts and hoof feet
Stampede the throne and take what you can
Learn to make hay out of concrete and jam
Under the wisdom of words is a number
Handed to ministers, diction and jumble
Could the patter have said: you must be repeat
Talking not walking and reading the peat
Swamps and the ice in the land of the gods
Confirm thus yourself is a player of odds
Author a fraction and glance at the sea
Contentment was a ship that sleeps under me
Drink up the glory and show off your hair
The beards and their chests are neon slime glare
Masculine actions fights swords with a pen
Culture made factions and blighted our ten
Dismally defend the things you don't own
Or write on your heart as if it were bone
Roman Ryan 