MISTRIAL OF A MINSTREL
They gave me a banjo
When I was young
But I refused the cheerful
Songs of the South;
The minstrel's claw-hammer strum.
Instead I fed
On a steady
Diet of dirges
and funerary urges.
They seemed to go with
My mournful accompanying voice,
Said to mangle
If not murder
A melody. Judged
By some
When I'd venture too
Close to a tune:
Hear what he's doing? He's deconstructing with bad intent.
"The banjo is
A string of accidents,"
I'd swear, with
Innocent, yet
Predictive prescience.
-jim hill (1-13-2017)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment