Sepulcher (I) Poem by David James

Thro' swampy bogs and misty fogs,
we fester and wait for victim's to bait.
Trinkets and baubles in our haste go to waste,
for all we want to do is taste.

Flesh sublime,
Souls divine.

No bones to creak, or lips to shriek,
only eyes to seek, and teeth to eat,
the bitter meat, that smells so sweet.

Topless man proud and loud,
with skill in arms and idle charms,
wades aloof, thro' muck too thick for horses hoof.

Hope but lost his sword is tossed,
although unstable, he is quite able
to clamour forth, through marsh and mire,
as we plot and conspire.

Pots to boil we do bring,
but not to toil or to sing.

The rain comes fierce as it doth pierce.
Despite man's fight to gain a grip
he slips and trips on slick of wick.
This topless man no longer proud,
although still loud is swallowed by
our hallowed ground.

The swamp content with man's lament
lets out a sigh of bubble and broth.
No ort is left but bones picked clean
its gleam ne'er to be seen.
New baubles and trinkets now lie in wait
for the next victim for us to bait.

For ever more our numbers dwindle
but rise whence souls transpire upon the mire.

It is with this that our very
equilibrium exist...

The fickle lesser evil.

Fi! fi! fi!

This dreaded curse oh, aye!
For it has claimed many souls.

Fee, fo, fum.

All within our tummy tum tum.