Merrily per the rising sun
do wondrous tidings bear the fruit
of good things yet to come.
Though porous is the songbird’s chant
carried on in redundant applaud,
bafflement strikes in oppressive affairs
when the chant of the songbird should end.
Call to him, ye merrymakers,
for the whole thing is all just a game,
but Time himself is a strange old bird,
as he flies on by in mysterious ways
like the banner of yore
stripped away from its pole near a grave.
Time takes good care of himself
like the independent elderly
or the love he keeps on selling me,
while others take for granted his spell
or his curse of weighted measure.
To death he is betrothed
keeping life nearby as his mistress,
and Change as his henchman
in untangled entrenchment
as this strange bird chirps on with laughter
at the madness of it all…
at the madness of it all.
