Spinning On His Spool Poem by jim hogg

Of course he'll lie and never pay; the mirror's in the way
He's dished the token gestures out; he's mesmerised the bay
The waves rise up, the currents flow, the very shore is cowed
It's scripture meets the mafia; it's everything's allowed
It's toddler Johnny on a roll; it's temper tantrum day
But, cock your lugs and open wide, there's heckling in the crowd

'Impeach me then with ricicles, Ticonderogan wedge
I'm tyranny, I'm tarragon, I'm greasing up this ledge'
Miraculous as cowardice, Vesuvius you must
Or wall of water wash away, or plague of rapid rust
A wintering of wills would do, instead of rabbit hedge
Come battered beans and buttered boasts, in cabbages we trust

Inflammatory matters must, by all that's good and rare,
Provoke in us a real response, an ounce of stand and stare
Imagine Henry Cabot Lodge imagining four dogs
Or serenade of galaxies, the tunefulness of cogs
The mouth of youth, the steel of truth: the helicopter's there
I'm burning up, I'm turning down, devoid of fresh agogs

Please kindly raise the music up, I'm bantering with bones
And puddle me, my aspects dear, all poldered, poldered moans
I think the wind will win this thing; the Company's a breeze
Some complimentary gulls on hand, a rouse of lambs on trees
For lone wolves walk a wilderness, a whispering of stones
Thus, crushing feints, a snow of rains, a requiem of knees.

Fair runners ran at Bladensburg with flair in undressed files
Contagion's pints have spilled again, a silence spread for miles
No Chicxulub, nor Deccan Trap, just hoodless riding red
Invisible except to squints, though hints from fingers fled
Let loose the lovely locusts, then, they're desperate in the aisles,
Or reason, if you've lost your wits, at padlocks on the shed

As houses fall, as wisdom flies, and honour flees the field
Sometimes a little tickling helps an avalanche to yield
A softer tongue may better sway than cockerels at the dawn
But time, that unkempt tearaway, it leaps to kill or spawn
Now Vinny's gone, and Sonny's gone, their rule-bound rods unreeled
The little fish that ate them both is coming for your scone.