Hang You Up Above the Fireplace
Lift those grey veils and look, you fool,
hot lathe will sculpt and grind with tools
and don’t suppose you’ll end this race,
you won’t - that much is certain.
Keep friends close for the enemies flirt
who’d slap that look from off your face.
You be some Duke of controlling words,
try commands, think looks that murder,
knee-jerk whispers of uprising murmur,
choosing never to stoop or never serve,
but don’t think you can by smiling hide,
he’ll dash those roses from your eyes,
and he will put your curtain by,
part ashes where your hot snakes writhe,
shred your shrewish gaze of sullen silk,
you’re waylaid across the table,
find time to lesson you if he's able,
expose spots of joy for sludge and silt,
with craft your masked distemper trace,
and hang you up above the fireplace.
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