A motley fool in well-worn rags,
rip-torn and bejewelled
in bells and baubles,
rides by astride his hobbyhorse:
“I am”, he cries, “a thing of wood,
a Marotte stick that has no feeling.
The Tree of Life’s own loggerhead
with seventy-seven buds, all sprouted.”
“I have no wants of this world
and laugh at its prince. I drink his dregs
and dance his jigs, for they mean
nothing to me.”
“Let the Devil play his trump.
I shall play the Fool for Christ --
and Shakespeare too --
for both know I know nought.”
With one foot bare and one foot shoed
he canters down the ciphered trail:
"Tarry 'til I come again", echoes
through the Christ cursed years.
No comments:
Post a Comment