Cloth Of Grade Poem by Naveed Akram

The cloth of the coach was flesh,
Cobwebs were spun on it, the girls
Of this flesh were with feet
Who met the coach and fought him.

He was some drum, he was a gate
To the fires of the flesh; dinner
Had been at his feet, with hands and face,
Liking the doctor of all this pain.

Fog came, games came, then the grade
Was sought like laws, maps of the region;
This fog was a bubonic plague like this,
Eyes of the family were cast on it.

The mailbox was sent a rat for spoiling
Then the glue was a food for the rats,
Games away, games away!
Rats have been the grade for us all.