The goose in its upright pose
bent its neck to eat grits
Looking at the freedom of
Missing Celtic promises
taking in the riddling stones
Arguments of refilled pearls
In jar staring at the plucked
feathers disgression’s
grown from its own ravaged shell
to be placed in a cap forever casting
light on the shadow’s envious gaze
the left over’s from a career riffled
and sent off into the seance
Of which reindeer to choose
To sing a old serenade with
Have i told you
I’ve never been a gentleman
ginger doesn’t grow on grafted
trees and if life descended
Then that blonde is a glass
Half filled and now history.
