Service of the Song
Listen to
all your selfish sloppers
trying to
get by on fussy fanfare,
foregathering
sprays of daffodils,
all an
antimony of brittle quills,
looking for a
lifetime in the sun,
outside the service
of the song.
Now fame is your
elusive lover,
who walks under
those huge legs
to peep, snorting
at all dotish tat,
scoffing to doff
his ragbag old hat
at your cord
of cliché so well worn
outside the
service of the song.
Senseless
quizlings of one another
drawing
attention to aspirants’
thick set minds
- these supplicants
of writers’
lifts and writers’ grants:
but time she
always marches on
outside the
service of the song.
Away from
all your tinsel covers,
bass will
keep an eye on drum
and by the thrumming
of a thumb
something subtle
this way comes,
soul
backstage where he belongs,
to serve the
service of the song,
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